


Dyslexic Heart

by trixietru



Series: Something Something [2]
Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 69,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trixietru/pseuds/trixietru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Murder by Something Something". Shawn has never been good at following rules, not even the ones he makes for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This starts immediately before "Any Given Friday at 10 PM, 9 PM Central". Familiarity with all of the episodes from the end of S3 through the first half of S4 is probably necessary to follow what's going on, as I used the episodes as a jumping off point for the events of the story. Think of it as a lot of post-episode fanfics strung together.
> 
> It should probably go without saying that reading "Murder by Something Something" first is also necessary, as none of Lassiter and Shawn's interactions will make any sense without knowing what happened between them in that story.
> 
> This is still a WIP, but I'm finally starting to see the end in sight, so I thought I'd try posting one chapter a week until it's finished. You're getting two chapters this week because the first has been up at my livejournal for over a month!
> 
> Title is from the Paul Westerburg song of the same name.
> 
> Do I love you?  
> Do I hate you?  
> I've got a dyslexic heart.
> 
> Special thanks to the Psych writers for making it canon that Lassiter is amazing in bed!

Lassiter had been worried that it would be awkward the next time he saw Spencer after the events of the Harrison Griffin case, so it was almost a relief that it was merely annoying instead.

Well, in actuality, it was the second time he had seen Spencer since then; the first had been at Claire Collins's funeral, when he had caught a glimpse of Shawn sitting in the back of the chapel where the service was held. They hadn't spoken, and in fact, Lassiter wasn't even certain that Shawn had seen him.

So this, a little less than a week later, was the first time he had really seen Shawn since they had shared what could only be described as an extremely ill-advised sexual encounter in a seedy motel room. It was disturbing that he felt a surge of pleasure at the sound of Shawn's voice, but comfortingly familiar that what the voice was saying was just as ridiculous as usual.

"…I knew that Lassie and I were dead meat if I couldn't stop Griffin somehow, and that I only had one chance to save us. So I summoned all of my formidable psychic powers and sent a message to my own personal Magic Head."

Lassiter turned the corner in the police station to see Spencer sitting on the corner of his desk, Gus at his side, holding a small group of uniform officers spellbound.

"As many of you know," he continued, "Gus and I share a special bond that, during times of great stress, I can call on for assistance."

Gus nodded sagely. "I was eating brunch in San Francisco with my sister when I head Shawn screaming for help in my head."

Shawn frowned. "I wasn't screaming, Gus. It was more of a manly bellow for assistance."

"Whatever, Shawn. Either way, I knew that I had to call immediately."

"When my phone rang, I psychically signaled Detective Lassiter to let him know that this was our chance, and he heroically tackled Griffin. It was an amazing display of psychic teamwork. Hey look folks, there he is now. How about a hand for our Head Detective?"

The officers applauded politely as Lassiter stalked towards them. "All right children, storytime is over," he barked at them, "get back to work." Everyone scattered as he came to a stop in front of Shawn and Gus. "Get off my desk, Spencer."

Shawn just smirked at him. "But Lassie, I was about to tell them about how mine and Gus's strength combined with yours to create an unstoppable crime-fighting machine that brought an end to Griffin's reign of terror."

Lassiter sighed. "Is there a reason you're here?"

"I just wanted to visit my favorite detective," Shawn said solemnly, then leaning over to look past Lassiter, crooned "Hiiiiiii Jules."

"Hi Shawn, hi Gus," she said politely, not moving from her spot seated behind her desk.

"The Chief called us down here to sign some paperwork," Gus said.

"Great. Go do that," Lassiter said, making "run along now" gestures with his hand.

Shawn hopped off of his desk and Lassiter took a step back, unwilling to even accidentally come into contact with him, but he didn't miss the slight wince that crossed Shawn's face as he bounced to his feet.

"How's your arm?" he asked, before he could stop the question from escaping.

Shawn shrugged, which caused him to wince again. "It's okay. The stitches come out tomorrow. How's that black eye feel? It makes you look very tough-guy, like Harrison Ford at the end of Raiders."

At the reminder, Lassiter touched the bruise around his eye gingerly. "It's fine. I only remember it when I look in the mirror."

"Hey, do you have bruises from hitting the water? Like, even my bruises have bruises."

Lassiter nodded. "Yeah, a couple of days ago I was so sore I could barely…" he trailed off, aware that Gus was looking at him oddly, and while he emphatically did not believe in psychic powers, he was certain that O'Hara was giving him the same look from her desk. "Never mind," he said sternly. "I have work to do. Go."

"Fine," Shawn said, with a theatrical sigh. "Try not to miss me too much, Lassie. Byyyyyyeeee Jules," he added, looking over at Juliet again.

"Bye, Shawn," she said, with barely concealed amusement.

After the terrible twosome had disappeared into the Chief's office, Lassiter sat down at his desk and tried to concentrate on the work in front of him, but after a moment was forced to look up and address the fact that O'Hara was watching him with a preoccupied expression on her face.

"What?" he asked testily.

"Did Shawn really psychically tell you when to jump Griffin?"

"O'Hara! Don't be so gullible. Of course he didn't. The phone rang, Griffin was distracted, and I saw my chance. End of story."

Juliet nodded, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It's just…"

"What?" he snapped, wishing she would get to the point, or, better yet, end the conversation altogether.

"You just seemed a little different with Shawn than you usually do. Nicer, I guess. It would make sense if you had shared some sort of, you know, psychic bond."

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you this O'Hara, but Spencer is not psychic. There is no such thing as psychic powers, but even if there were, Spencer would not have them. And God forbid that he and I share any kind of bond, psychic or otherwise."

"Understood," Juliet said, holding up a hand placatingly. "But you know, you two have been through a lot together recently. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for you to actually get along."

"It might," Lassiter grumbled.

Juliet gave him an exasperated look and went back to her paperwork, and inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. While he and Spencer certainly didn't share a psychic bond, they had shared a bond of a more physical sort. He was going to have to be more careful not to act any differently than he had before. Spencer, he had noticed, had not had any difficulty with acting as he normally did, spinning stories and flirting with O'Hara.

"That was weird," Gus said, as soon as he and Shawn were back in the Blueberry and headed for the Psych office.

"What was weird?" Shawn asked. "Are you talking about the way Officer Steward's eyelid twitches whenever she looks at you? Because that IS weird."

Gus scowled. "No Shawn, I was talking about the fact that Lassiter was actually nice to you. For a few seconds, at least."

"Was he?" Shawn asked, looking out the window at the passing Santa Barbara scenery. "I didn't notice. And anyway, Lassie can be nice sometimes."

He could be VERY nice, Shawn thought, remembering the feeling of his hand wrapped around Shawn's –

"Not often," Gus said, "which is why I noticed it today. You want jerk chicken or Mexican food tonight?"

"Hmmm? Oh, chicken, mon," he said, dropping into a terrible Jamaican accent that made Gus grimace.

"Didn't I tell you that you weren't allowed to go Jamaican anymore, Shawn? It's embarrassing."

"I thought that was just a temporary ban!" Shawn protested.

"Consider it permanent," Gus said firmly. "He didn't even really yell at you, just told you to get off his desk."

"What?" Shawn said, confused. "Wait, are we back on Lassiter now? You can't just jump around from topic to topic like that, Gus. It makes you sound too much like me."

Gus shrugged. "It was just weird, is all."

"So you said," Shawn pointed out, finding that he was having a hard time keeping his tone light. "I've told you before Gus, Lassie isn't so bad. We have an understanding."

"I don't understand your understanding, but if it works for you, I guess that's all that matters."

Shawn wasn't so certain at the moment that it was working for him, actually. One hasty encounter had done nothing to scratch the itch he had for Lassiter. If anything, it had just made the itch even itchier, more impossible to ignore. Like the chicken pox, or a bad case of poison ivy or a persistent rash.

Maybe he should stop equating wanting Lassie with an itch. It was kind of gross.

He glanced over at Gus in the driver's seat and reminded himself that it didn't matter if he was still itchy for Lassie; he wasn't going to do anything about it. He was certain that the strange fluttery feelings he had for Lassiter would fade with time, just like the chicken pox did. He only hoped that it didn't leave a scar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter refers to events and conversations that took place in "Any Given Friday at 10 PM, 9 PM Central" and "Truer Lies".

It was only a few days later that Psych was called in to consult on an investigation, the case of the mysterious dismembered foot and the crooked football players. Mostly it went pretty well, Lassiter thought, though there had been one incredibly uncomfortable moment when he had felt triumphant about getting one over on Spencer and had made an un-thought-out comment about finally finding a way to shut Spencer's cavernous piehole, which had immediately conjured up a memory of Shawn saying that there were other ways to shut him up, followed by the most intense blow job of his life. He could tell that Shawn was remembering the same thing by the way he got so flustered that for once, he couldn't come up with a suitable comeback. Lassiter thought that he had covered his own discomfort pretty well, mostly because it really had been amusing to see Shawn fumble for a response

A few minutes later, of course, Shawn came up with the requisite obscure 80s movie while making fun of Lassiter's hair, a Spencerian form of revenge.

There had been another, less embarrassing, bad moment when he had seen the picture of "Chad" on the wall of the Laundromat and flipped out a little over it; sometimes, it felt like Shawn was unwittingly stalking him somehow.

Spencer had spent a lot of the case running around in a football uniform and flirting with O'Hara, like he was trying to live out some high school fantasy about the quarterback and the pretty cheerleader. To her credit, O'Hara brushed off most of his flirtations, but Lassiter had caught her watching Shawn a few times when she thought no one was paying attention to her, and it was slightly worrisome. Surely she was too smart to fall for his bullshit, right?

Once again, the climax of the case involved Shawn and Gus being in mortal peril, this time from meathead football players. Sometimes he thought that he should suggest to Chief Vick that those two nitwits should be locked away for their own safety.

When Spencer came by the station later to pick up his check for the case, he paused by Lassiter's desk.

"So, not a football fan, huh? I would have thought that would be right in your macho wheelhouse."

Lassiter didn't look up from the report he was filling out. "Just never developed an interest, I guess. I didn't realize that you were a fan until this case."

Shawn shrugged. "It was a way for me and my dad to bond. Plus, all the guys in tight pants were very intriguing to my pre-adolescent self."

That did make Lassiter look up at him. "I'm surprised to hear you say that in public," he said dryly.

"No one else can hear us, Lass," Shawn said, looking around at the officers around the station, none of them paying any apparent attention to either of them.

Lassiter tried to force his attention back to his report. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Where's Guster?"

"He had to go to his other job today. It's ridiculous the amount of time he has to spend there."

Lassiter thought about pointing out that this was patently untrue, since Gus appeared to spend the bulk of his time running around and getting into life and death situations with Shawn, but decided that it wasn't worth the trouble. Also, he had forgotten that Guster even had another job.

"What about your dad?" he suggested. "Go bother him for a while."

"Nooo," Shawn said, laughing a little. "This case was good because he got to hang out with one of his heroes all thanks to me. I should avoid him for a while, so that I can't disappoint him somehow."

That did get Lassiter's attention. "Why would you say that?" he started to ask, but was interrupted by Juliet coming in and setting a sack of food down on his desk.

"Here's your sandwich, Carlton. Hi, Shawn. What are you doing here?"

"It's payday, Jules! Gus insists that we take money, even though all the payment that I needed was the chance to run out onto that football field. So, what did you think? Was it the hottest thing you've ever seen? I've ruined you for other men, haven't I?"

"I'm sure I'll never be the same," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You know what?" Lassiter said abruptly, standing up and grabbing the lunch that O'Hara had brought him, "I think I'm going to go outside to eat today."

"I thought you were planning on eating at your desk," Juliet said, surprised.

"Changed my mind," he said, and left before he had to watch another sickening second of Spencer flirting with his partner.

"Were you bothering him?" Juliet asked Shawn, watching Lassiter leave the building, all tense shoulders and hurried pace.

"Me?" Shawn asked innocently. "Of course not, Jules. How can you accuse me of such a thing?"

"You love to wind him up," she said, crossing her arms and frowning at him.

Shawn thought about denying it, but there was really no point. "Yeah," he admitted with a grin, "I really, really do. But not today! Today we were having a perfectly innocent conversation. You know that species of Carltonius Lassasouras is moody. Maybe he needs some sunlight to perk up his droopy leaves. Or maybe he needs to be outside in order to contact his home planet."

Juliet didn't look amused. "You're impossible," she said, sitting down at her desk. "I don't know why the two of you can't get along."

Shawn knew exactly why Lassiter had stalked out of the station, but he wasn't sure what to do about it; if he were to suddenly stop flirting with Jules, then people – specifically Gus and Jules herself – would notice and think it was odd. And besides, he didn't WANT to stop. Juliet was fun and pretty and smart, and he liked making her smile and blush.

Since Jules was out of sorts with him right now, and Lassie was gone, Shawn decided it was time for him to leave as well. With a wave to Juliet, he left, putting on his sunglasses as he stepped out into the bright California afternoon.

Lassiter was sitting on a bench in front of the station, eating the sandwich Juliet had brought him. Turkey, mayo, no mustard, Shawn cataloged automatically. He stopped in front of the bench, but Lassiter ignored him.

"You said you would be fine with this," Shawn reminded him.

"I am," Lassiter replied. "I didn't want to spend time with you before, and I don't want to spend time with you now."

"Ah," Shawn said, wondering why that hurt when it was just Lassie being Lassie, "well then, I guess I'll be leaving."

"You do that."

After that, Shawn stayed away from the station for a few days, at least until Gus was able to go with him again.

Setting up the putting green in the middle of the station in order to test his skills turned out to be an excellent idea, especially since Jules and Lassie were out on a call and not there to amuse him and/or give him a case. It figured that just as he made what had to be the most amazing shot in the history of office putting, Lassiter would come along and step on the ball. His and Gus's timing in being at the station that morning proved to be fortuitous however, since it led to them investigating the case of Lyin' Ryan.

Since he had been known to stretch the truth a time or two himself, Shawn was immediately drawn to a case involving a man known to be a compulsive liar, but he soon found that he didn't have much in common with Ryan, who seemed nearly completely incapable of being straightforward about anything. It had been a relief to have his dad, who was so often his harshest critic (well, aside from Lassiter), confirm that he was nothing like Ryan.

Of course, in the same breath Henry had said that the only reason Shawn ever worked hard on a case was to have fun and to show off, which Shawn didn't think was entirely fair. Sure, he liked to have fun. Who didn't? And it was Henry's fault that he had these super duper investigative skills, so he shouldn't begrudge his son the chance to show them off sometimes.

But he also liked helping people, and stopping criminals. This was the first job he had ever had that he was passionate about. He couldn't turn his observational skills off, but he had finally found a way to put them to good use. And if he got to joke around and flirt with hot cops and pretend to be psychic and hang out with his best friend all the time while using them, well then, all the better. The bad guys still got arrested.

It stung a little though, to know that his dad thought he only did it for the fun and glory, like he couldn't do anything without an ulterior motive.

The night after the case with Ryan was wrapped up, after Lassie and Jules showed up just in the nick of time to save Shawn and Ryan from being shot, Shawn found that he couldn't sleep. It wasn't unusual for him to have trouble sleeping, particularly after near death experiences; he found that the worst thing about it was that being awake in the middle of the night, when there was no Gus to hang out with (Gus was very strict about his eight hours of sleep) was boring, and he hated being bored.

Food was always a good option when he couldn't sleep, so at two o'clock in the morning, after he had exhausted all the entertainment possibilities in his apartment, he went to a nearby all-night diner. He knew that it was a place popular with cops, close enough to the station to be convenient for patrolmen coming off duty or officers pulling long shifts, so he shouldn't have been as surprised as he was to see Lassiter there.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted out, sliding into the seat across from where Lassie was sitting and eating scrambled eggs and bacon.

Lassiter blinked at him, looking equally surprised. "I'm grabbing something to eat before I go home. What the hell are you doing here at this time of night?"

"I couldn't sleep," Shawn said briefly. "Wait, you mean you've been at the station this whole time? We wrapped the Lyin' Ryan case hours and hours ago! Assassins captured, innocent lives saved, go team!"

"You mean YOU wrapped it hours ago. I still had to question them, book them, write a report…"

"Oh yeah," Shawn said. "I always forget about all that stuff."

"That's because you never have to do any of that stuff."

"Still, you should be home already, Lassie, tucked safely in your bed," he said, taking in Lassiter's bloodshot eyes and general air of exhaustion.

Lassiter shrugged. "I was going to leave a few hours ago, but we got a call about a shooting at a residence on Forester Street."

Perking up with interest, Shawn asked, "A murder? Tell me more!"

"Not your kind of case, Spencer. We already have a confession. Husband shot his wife because she wanted a divorce. She had a restraining order on him, uniforms had been called to the house a dozen times over the past year for domestic disturbances…it was an open-and-shut case."

"Oh," Shawn said, disappointed, sinking back into the booth. "That's depressing."

A bored looking waitress came by and asked Shawn if he wanted anything. "Cheese fries, and hot chocolate with marshmallows, please. He'll have a hot chocolate too," he added, nodding at Lassiter.

"I don't want hot chocolate, Spencer. I have coffee."

"He does want hot chocolate," Shawn assured the waitress. "Trust me Lassie, you do."

The waitress shrugged and left. There was an awkward silence at the table after her departure. Lassiter picked at his food, barely eating. Shawn found himself watching two of the waitresses having an argument over tips. He considered intervening and telling the one on the right – Shelley, according to her name tag – that he knew she was lying about stealing Patrice's tip money, but decided it was more hassle than it was worth.

"How did you know that Ryan was telling the truth?"

Shawn's attention swung back to Lassiter, who was looking at his scrambled eggs like the answer to his question might be found there.

"You know how it is," Shawn said, placing his hand against his temple, "I could sense his aura as soon as you brought him into the station. He was radiating truth, justice, and maybe even the American Way."

"Never mind," Lassiter sighed, sounding more weary than frustrated. "I don't know why I bothered to ask."

The waitress came by again and served them their hot chocolate and Shawn his fries. Shawn stuck his fingers into the mug, fished out a marshmallow, and put it into his mouth.

"Hypothetically speaking," he said, as he savored the gooey sweetness, sucking the marshmallow off his fingers, "there might be other reasons a person like me would be drawn to a case like that. You might not believe this Lassie, but there are cynical, hardened people out there who accuse ME of lying occasionally."

He looked up to see that Lassiter was staring at his mouth, but when he realized Shawn had caught him he hastily averted his eyes. "The mind boggles," Lassiter said, hesitantly reaching for his own mug of hot chocolate and taking a small sip.

"So, when presented with a man that no one believes, I might be inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Hypothetically, of course. In reality, I saw into his mind and knew he was telling the truth. And also that he has some very strange theories about Gilligan's Island."

"So you got involved with his case because you thought he might have something in common with you?"

Shawn smiled bitterly. "Actually, I've been informed that the only reason I solve cases is to show off and have fun, so I guess I must have gotten involved just for the thrill of having bad guys point their guns at me again."

"Bullshit," Lassiter snorted, taking a big gulp of his hot chocolate. "Who told you that? It doesn't matter," he said waving a hand derisively, "It's a load of crap no matter who said it."

"Oh?" Shawn asked, confused. "I would have thought you would be the first one to sign on in agreement to that theory."

"Are you out of your mind, Spencer? Look, the way you go about solving crimes is completely asinine. You endanger yourself and Guster without giving it a second thought. You act like you have no concept of procedure or the law. You lie and manipulate and…what?" he asked, as Shawn shoved aside his nearly empty plate of fries and dropped his head onto the table.

"Nothing," Shawn said, his voice muffled against the tabletop. "I just thought you were about to say something nice about me. I should have known better."

Lassiter scowled at him, even though he couldn't see it. "Like your ego needs me to say something nice about you. What I was going to say is that any idiot could see that you don't do this because it's fun; you do it because you have to. It's in your blood. You're a natural born investigator."

Shawn sat back up, considering this. "That was dangerously close to being a compliment, Lassie."

Lassiter set his now empty mug down on the table. "Yeah, well, don't tell anyone," he said, as he pulled out his wallet and tossed a few bills onto the table. "I'm ready for bed now."

Shawn's eyes widened slightly and Lassiter hastened to say "I mean, I'm going home. Alone! To sleep. You should, too. To your home."

Shawn couldn't hide his grin, but all he said was "Okay, I'll do that. Good night, Lassie."

"Good night," Lassiter said, standing up to leave. "Oh, and Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"You were right about the hot chocolate. Thanks."

After Lassiter left, Shawn continued to sit at the table for a few minutes, thinking over something else that Henry had said, that he had always had someone around who knew when he was lying and bothered to call him on it. Henry had always been that person in his life, but nowadays, Lassiter was too. Shawn wondered if that wasn't part of the reason that he was drawn to him. It was kind of refreshing to have someone that he couldn't charm or deceive into doing what he wanted – with Lassiter, he actually had to work for it.

Yawning, Shawn decided that Lassiter had the right idea about going to bed, though it was really too bad that they both had to go home alone.

Before leaving though, he had one tiny piece of business to take care of. He waved over Shelley-the-waitress, giving her a sweet smile as she came over to his table.

"Can I help you?"

"Shelley," he said gently, "you need to give Patrice her tip money back."

Fear, followed by anger, flashed across her face. "Is she complaining to customers about me now? I didn't take her money!"

"Yeah, you did. I'm a psychic, Shelley, with the Santa Barbara Police Department. If you don't return that money and stop taking things that aren't yours, I see bad things in your future. You have to stop, now, or the consequences will be dire."

He stood up, putting money on the table for his own waitress, and patted Shelley on the arm as he walked past. "Good night, Shelley."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references the events of the episode "Tuesday the 17th".

When Lassiter received the call from Victoria, he was elated. He hadn’t heard from her in months, and he was hoping against hope that she was finally ready to give their marriage another chance.

Lassiter had liked being married, liked having someone else care whether or not he came home at night. He missed it. He had spent more than two years actively working to get Victoria back, to fix whatever it was that he had screwed up. He couldn’t change the fact that he had a sometimes dangerous job that required him to work long hours, but he had tried to change other aspects of himself, to be more open and a better listener and all that other crap the marriage counselor had advised, all to no avail.

After so much time had passed, he had started to accept that there was no chance for reconciliation, but hearing her voice again, asking him to meet her for dinner, had made all those old expectations come back. So he bought flowers and jewelry, and practiced what he would say to her, and found himself daydreaming about what it would be like to be married to her again.

A tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that if he recommitted himself to Victoria, that would end the possibility that something else might happen between him and Shawn. Well. That could only be a good thing.

So he went to dinner with Victoria with the anticipation of a new beginning, only to have his heart crushed once again.

He had given her some nice speech about moving on and tomorrow and whatnot, but the reality of it was that after everything he had tried and everything he had hoped for, he was still alone. Hope was for suckers.

When he got home he turned his phone back on (he hadn’t wanted work interrupting his big reunion) and found that he had missed a call from Spencer. No message though, so it must not have been important. Good. That meant he could get pleasantly drunk and wallow in his own bitterness for a few hours.

Victoria didn’t want him anymore. Lucinda had left as soon as their relationship had been outed. And Shawn…Shawn wasn’t worth thinking about. Lassiter’s attraction to him was an aberration, brought on by loneliness and maybe a certain admiration for the amount of cases that Spencer closed. Shawn had made it clear that there was no future in whatever they had shared, and that was fine with Lassiter. The idea of a future with Shawn was clearly ridiculous.

The next morning, he woke up with a hangover and a sense of failure. His mood didn’t improve when he got to the station and was handed a message from O’Hara that she was on her way in after having made an arrest for a triple homicide overnight.

“What the hell happened last night?” he asked her as soon as she came into the station. “Why didn’t you call me?”

She recoiled slightly from his tone. “I didn’t want to bother you. How did it go with Victoria? Oh,” she said in realization at seeing his expression. “I’m sorry, Carlton. I know how much you –”

He waved off her concern impatiently. “It’s not up for discussion, O’Hara. Tell me about your case.”

She nodded and perched on the corner of her desk. “Shawn called me last night sounding completely freaked out…”

“I should have known that this had something to do with Spencer,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“He said that he tried to call you too, but of course you had your phone turned off. I told him that you were meeting Victoria…”

“You told him what?” Lassiter snapped, then backtracked quickly. “Never mind. What did Spencer get himself into this time?”

She recounted the events of the night before, ending with “…so, Shawn thought that Gus was drowning, maybe dead, so he ran into the pool to rescue him, and Clive went after him with a machete…it really was like something out of a horror movie. I got there just in time. I shot Clive in the hand. After he’s done at the hospital, he’ll be brought here for booking. I imagine he’s going to need a psych evaluation as well.”

Mentally adding “maniac with a machete” to the list of people who had tried to kill Spencer over the past few months, Lassiter asked “Are Guster and Spencer all right?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. Shaken up a little, but not seriously hurt. I think Shawn was more upset over the idea of something happening to Gus than he was over Clive trying to kill him.”

“If he wouldn’t run into these situations headfirst, then he wouldn’t have to worry about Guster almost being killed!”

“He called for back-up,” she pointed out. “He did the right thing.”

“Yeah,” Lassiter grudgingly agreed, rubbing at his forehead. His headache had gotten worse, no doubt because he was now being tormented over the image of some maniac with a machete trying to kill Shawn. “I should have been there.”

“No! Carlton, you’re entitled to a personal life. You were so excited yesterday…anyway, I had everything under control. I only wish that we had figured it out before he had the chance to kill three people.”

She looked tired, and he suddenly realized that she probably hadn’t had any sleep in more than twenty-four hours.

“Go home,” he told her. “Get some sleep. I’ll make sure he gets booked properly.”

Looking relieved, she stood up. “Thanks. I have to admit, I’m beat.”

As she started towards the door, he asked “Were you aiming for his hand?”

“Yeah. I know it was stupid, that I should have been aiming for a bigger target, but all I could think was that I wanted him to drop the damn machete.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Good work, O’Hara. Don’t come back until Monday, okay?”

She nodded, started to leave again, but paused. “You know Carlton, if you need anyone to talk to…”

He almost snapped at her again, but stopped himself before he could. “Noted,” he said. “Now, go home.”

She nodded and left, and he considered the idea that Victoria was right; he really had mellowed. Two years ago he would have burned the divorce papers, and a year ago he would have bitten Juliet’s head off for presuming to discuss his personal life. He couldn’t decide if the change was better or worse.

Shawn jerked awake, his heart racing. The dream – more a jumble of memories, really – had been especially bad. Gus and Clive, Harrison Griffin and Claire Collins, all tangled up in his mind so that Griffin was snapping Gus’s neck, and Claire was floating in the pool at Camp Tikihama, her neck at an awkward angle, asking if he wanted to go swimming.

He tried not to think about Claire too much, tried to tell himself that there wasn’t anything he could have done to save her, but he didn’t really believe that. If he had figured things out faster, maybe he could have saved her, and Casey and Sloane and Frank too. And now there was Billy and Annie, two more people he should have been able to save, if only he had seen how troubled Clive was from the beginning.

That brought up the image of Clive standing over him with the machete. Thank God for Jules and her impeccable aim.

He rolled over, closing his eyes and trying to clear his mind. He should try and get some more sleep; he was exhausted, and he had barely slept two hours before the nightmare woke him up.

He would never admit it, but he was a little pissed at Gus for dragging him into the whole Camp Tikihama thing at all, though he knew that Gus had never been able to say no to Jason Collins. Still, Gus had known that Shawn had just been through a whole “trapped in an isolated location with a serial killer on the loose” scenario just a few weeks before, so he should have known better than to put Shawn in that kind of situation again. It was no wonder that he had freaked and called Jules before realizing that the whole thing was a sham. And it turned out, in the end, that it was a good thing he had called her. He was starting to think that he should never leave home without Lassie or Jules, like they were well-armed American Express cards.

He had tried to call Lassie first, hadn’t known until Jules told him later that he was meeting with his ex-wife. Victoria. He wondered what she was like; he had some ideas, based on meeting her father and on a few comments Lassiter had dropped over the years, but he would love to meet her and get a real read on the woman who had married Carlton Lassiter. Who even now, might be getting back together with him, according to what Juliet had said.

He wondered what that would be like, a married Lassie. Not as much fun, he thought. No more veiled flirting or illicit touching. Lassiter wasn’t the type to mess around on the side – Shawn knew that he hadn’t started the affair with Lucinda until after he and Victoria had been separated for more than a year – and for all his ease with lying, Shawn had never found infidelity attractive.

It was a worrisome thought, a Lassiter who was off limits to him. Although, he should consider him off limits now; he should be hoping that Lassie did get back together with his ex, effectively putting an end to this whole infatuation.

But he didn’t want that to happen.

Restlessly, he rolled over again. Thinking about Lassiter conjured up an image of him, tall and broad-shouldered, crisp white shirt open at the collar. Shawn slipped a hand under the t-shirt he was wearing, and, imagining it was Lassiter’s hand, pinched lightly at a nipple.

He remembered how it had felt being on his knees for Lassiter, the salty taste of him, the way Lassie had tried to be controlled but had been unable to stop himself from putting a hand in Shawn’s hair to urge him on, greedy and eager.

Shawn reached over and opened the drawer of his nightstand, pulling out the bottle of lube he kept there. Closed his eyes so that he could more perfectly recall how it had felt to have Lassiter pressed up against him, the low growl of his voice in Shawn’s ear, the way his hand had felt around Shawn’s dick. Shawn mimicked the action now, his hips arching up off the bed at the touch of his slicked-up hand.

Afterwards, when he was finally starting to drift back to sleep, he felt a tickle of unease in the back of his mind. Not exactly because he’d jerked off thinking about Lassie; it was far from the first time he’d done that. What bothered him was that lately, he couldn’t seem to think of anyone else.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references the events of the episode "An Evening With Mr. Yang".

Calling Abigail Lytar was something that Shawn had been considering for a few days, before Gus pushed him into action with his comments about an eighty-year old Shawn still chasing after waitresses (Shawn was still trying to figure out if that would be such a terrible thing). He had adored Abigail in high school, and at the reunion he thought there was still a spark between them, and it seemed like if he were going to get past the Lassiter thing he needed to do something drastic, like maybe move on to someone he could be serious about.

It was a testament to his usual un-seriousness that both Gus and Abigail seemed stunned by his decision, but he could, you know, mature or whatever.

What had started off as such a promising day made an abrupt turn for the weird when he and Gus got to the station and became involved with the Yang case. It was creepy – and okay, maybe a smidge flattering – to have Santa Barbara’s most famous serial killer target him as an investigator, but when he realized that Yang had kidnapped his mom, things took a decidedly more downward spiral.

Later, after his mom was safe and he was sitting in the Blueberry with Abigail at his side and Gus in the backseat, when he should have been paying attention to the movie, or, better yet, to the woman next to him, he kept flashing back to his mom and the bomb. He almost lost her. She only survived at the whim of a madwoman.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, either. Yang. There had been an emptiness in her eyes that disturbed him more than anything in his recent memory – and he had a lot of recent disturbing memories to draw from.

He felt a light touch on his arm and looked down to see Abigail’s hand there. “Hey,” she said softly, “are you still here?”

“Where else would I be?” he asked brightly. “It’s true, sometimes when Gus goes on and on about something boring I go into a psychic trance and travel through space and time on the astro plane, but that would never happen around you.”

Gus threw a piece of popcorn at the back of his head. “It’s astral plane, Shawn. Astro is the name of the dog on The Jetsons.”

“No,” Shawn said confidently, “his name is Dino.”

“Dino is the pet dinosaur on The Flintsones.”

“I thought his name was Barney.”

Gus sighed in exasperation. “You're thinking of a different purple dinosaur. On The Flintstones, Barney was Fred’s best friend, the one who was inexplicably married to the smokin’ hot Betty.”

“Yeah, how did that happen, anyway? He was, like, a two, and she was a solid ten.”

“I always assumed he had mad skills with the ladies,” Abigail said. “Or that Betty and Wilma were secretly doing it on the side.”

“Abigail, I’m shocked!” Shawn said, “…that I didn’t think of that first. It explains so much.”

Abigail laughed and squeezed his arm, and he found himself holding her hand as she and Gus went back to paying attention to the movie and he returned to the private movie in his head, the one where there was a bomb on his mom’s lap and a crazy woman holding the trigger.

My most admirable foe, she had said. That was why she had chosen him. For the first time in a long time, Shawn felt his old anger at his dad welling up. If Henry had just let him be a normal kid instead of trying to turn him into the world’s greatest detective, then there would have been no reason for Yang to disrupt the lives of the Spencer family. He knew it was irrational to think that way, but he wasn’t feeling especially rational at the moment.

Yang had told him to think about her on his date tonight, and he hated that he was doing exactly that.

He tried to force his mind onto a different track, but that only led to thinking about Jules and her incredibly sweet attempt to ask him out, which in its own way was as perilous as thinking about Yang. A few weeks ago he would have jumped at the chance to be with Juliet, but that was before he had had sex with her partner. Dating her now would be a whole combo platter of awkwardness. He had never really considered that his constant flirting with her might lead somewhere serious, that he might be in a position to hurt her.

Thinking about Jules meant thinking about Lassiter, and it was so wrong, wrong, wrong to be thinking about Lassiter while sitting beside Abigail, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Lassiter would be able to keep him from feeling like he was about to fly apart in a million different directions. Lassiter had no tact and he generally failed at empathy, but he had a steadiness that would have been reassuring to the constant buzz of anxiety in his head tonight.

After the movie was over, he walked Abigail to her car and kissed her goodnight, and it should have been a moment in which he heard angels singing or something equally epic, because this was supposed to be the start of something new, something real, but instead it was just a kiss. A nice kiss, because it was always nice to kiss a pretty girl in the moonlight, but still. It was hard not to compare it to the last time he had kissed someone in the moonlight, which wasn’t fair since he had thought he was probably about to die when he had kissed Lassiter on that balcony, so the adrenaline had been pumping and the whole thing had been frantic and hot and it was wrong to expect anything to live up to that, wasn’t it?

***

Lassiter looked through the one-way glass of the interrogation room at the woman seated there. Yang was handcuffed to the table and there were two armed officers in the room, so any nervousness he was feeling was entirely irrational, he assured himself.

He went in and sat down across from her, opening the thick file folder that he had brought in with him and making a show of looking at it before looking up at her.

“Let’s start with something easy,” he said. “What’s your real name?”

Yang looked over at him anxiously. “Do you think he liked me?”

“What?” Lassiter asked, taken aback.

“I was so nervous! Big day, you know? I really wanted to make a good impression.”

“What in the name of sweet justice are you talking about?” Lassiter asked, utterly confused.

“Shawn, silly! Do you think he liked me?”

Lassiter stared at her in disbelief. “You kidnapped his mother and threatened to blow her up, so no, I don’t think he liked you. Now, what’s your name?”

“What’s it like to work with him? I bet it’s amazing.”

“Okay, you don’t want to tell me your name. Fine. Let’s talk about the original string of Yang murders back in 19—”

“He has the nicest smile, don’t you think? I mean, he didn’t smile at me tonight,” she said sadly, “but I have pictures.”

Lassiter’s stomach knotted at the thought of Yang owning pictures of Shawn, but he kept his expression even. “We’re not here to talk about Mr. Spencer. Now, if you’d like to tell me about how you kidnapped Madeline Spencer, then I’m all ears.”

Yang smirked at him. “Poor choice of words, Carlton.”

Lassiter ignored that; years of having Spencer and Guster make fun of his ears, his hair, his suits, and anything else they could come up with had made him immune to insults. “Tell me about the bomb, Yang. Where did you learn to build it?”

She shrugged with apparent disinterest. “You can learn a lot from the internet. Hey, can you find out for me why Shawn never updates his Facebook page? I want to know what he eats for breakfast every morning. He seems like a Lucky Charms man to me, what do you think?”

Lassiter set his jaw in frustration as she continued, her expression distant and her voice dreamy. “Don’t you think he has the prettiest eyes? Are they green? Are they blue? I wish I could take them out and play with them.” She frowned, tilted her head in consideration. “Do you think that they would look as pretty in a jar? I have a nice one.”

A cold chill ran down Lassiter’s spine and he slammed his hand down on the table in an attempt to get her attention. “Listen,” he snapped, “things are only going to be harder on you if you don’t answer my questions. Now, stop trying to change the subject and tell me what your real name is.”

“I didn’t realize until tonight how good he smells. I’d like to eat. Him. Up.”

Lassiter didn’t even realize that he had leaned across the table and grabbed her arm, the red wave of anger consuming him was so intense.

“Stop it,” he said furiously. “Stop talking about Shawn.”

For the first time all night, Yang’s bright, empty eyes were finally focused on him, and despite his tight grip on her arm, she laughed in apparent delight.

“Carlton! I had no idea! Am I going to have to fight you for his hand?”

“Detective Lassiter,” snapped a voice from behind him, and he suddenly realized what he was doing and that Chief Vick had entered the room unnoticed by him. He released Yang and stood up, taking a step back.

“Detective, can I see you outside?” Vick said, her tone clipped and professional. He followed her into the observation room, swiping his hand across his face as he tried to compose himself.

“Carlton, I think it’s time for you to go home.”

“Chief, I’m sorry I lost my temper. It won’t happen again, just let me –”

Vick shook her head, “I’m not angry at you for that, Carlton, and I’m not punishing you. She would try the patience of a saint, and well…”

“I’m no saint?” he offered dryly.

“Exactly. Really, there’s not much you can do tonight. The psychiatrist is on his way to make his evaluation, and while her prints haven’t turned anything up yet, we’re running her through every possible database to try and find a match. The crime scene guys are still going over her car with a fine tooth comb to try and find anything that might tell us who she is and where she’s from. She’s obviously not going to give anything away right now, so it would be better to come back at her tomorrow with more information.”

“She’s obsessed with Spencer,” Lassiter said grimly, looking into the interrogation room at Yang, who appeared to be examining her cuticles.

“So I heard,” Vick said. “Are you…never mind. Go home, Carlton, and get some rest. Come back after lunch tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

He nodded, secretly relieved that he didn’t have to go back into the interrogation room and listen to anymore of Yang’s sick fantasies about Shawn.

On his way out of the station, he saw O’Hara at her desk and made a detour to speak with her.

“I thought you had gone home for the night,” he said, confused.

She didn’t look up from the report she was typing. “I went to check on Shawn. I didn’t think I would be back tonight, but I was too wired to go home, so I thought I’d come in and try and get some work done.”

“You saw Spencer? Is he all right?” Lassiter asked, forcing himself to sound as casual as possible. He would ask the same about anyone whose mother had been kidnapped and almost murdered, after all.

“He’s fine,” Juliet said, still not looking at him. “He had a date.”

“A date,” Lassiter said blankly.

“Yes. So, did you question her? Yang?”

“Yeah. It was…unproductive. The Chief wants to wait and try again after the shrink has a chance to evaluate her.”

“What’s she like?” Juliet asked curiously, and now she did look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, like she had been crying.

“She’s completely fucking crazy,” Lassiter said. “Are you okay, O’Hara?”

“I’m fine,” she said, hastily turning her face back to her computer screen. “You should go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He stared at the back of her head, concerned. “O’Hara…”

“Carlton,” she said gently, “I’m just a little wound up from everything that happened today. I’ll be fine. Good night.”

He left reluctantly, unsure of how to handle a fragile O’Hara but knowing that in her place, he would want for his partner to give him space.

The idea of driving past Spencer’s place and checking on him was overwhelmingly tempting, but remembering what O’Hara had said about him having a date, he decided against it.

A date. On the same night that he caught a serial killer. Christ.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: As with the last chapter, this takes place after "An Evening with Mr. Yang". Hey, this is where I earn the NC-17 rating on this fic, but the version of this chapter posted on fanfiction.net is less explicit, for those of you who prefer less detail :).

Gus could tell that he was antsy on the drive home, and he offered to hang out with Shawn all night, but Shawn told him to go home and get some sleep. Gus had to be exhausted; between imitating Michael Jackson and running after a train, the day had been just as long and weird for him as it had been for Shawn.

Once he was alone, he took a shower, standing under the hot spray of the water and closing his eyes, trying to shut out the memory of his mom, the bomb, Yang. He tried to think instead about how Abigail's hair smelled like apples, and how sweetly she had pressed up against him when he kissed her, but he couldn't hold onto the pleasure of those memories, and within seconds he was back to the bomb, his mom, Yang.

Trying to go to sleep would be useless. He got dressed and paced around his apartment a few times, looking for distractions, but nothing could hold his attention, so he gave up and went out to his bike. Maybe some fresh air and a ride around town would clear his mind.

His mom, terrified, silent. The bomb, blinking away in her lap. Yang, sly and unstable.

He wasn’t sure at what point he decided to go to Lassiter’s house; it was less of a conscious decision and more a feeling of being drawn to the one person who might be capable of shutting down the looping images going through his mind.

Lassiter didn’t believe in psychic powers, but he knew without looking who was knocking at his door at nearly three in the morning.

“Spencer,” he asked tiredly after opening the door, “what are you doing here?”

Shawn looked past him, into his dark house. “Can I come in for a minute, Lassie?”

Lassiter didn’t move away from the door. “It’s been a long day, Shawn. Why don’t you go home and try to sleep?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen right now. Hey, I had a date tonight,” Shawn said conversationally. “With Abigail, do you remember her from my high school reunion?”

Lassiter does remember her: a pretty girl, laughing at something Spencer had said.

“If you want to talk about your conquests Spencer, you should go find Guster. I’m not interested.”

“No, it wasn’t like that! Abigail was my high school dream girl. I’ve wanted to go out with her for fifteen years.”

“Great. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Good night.”

He tried to close the door, only to have Shawn push his way in.

“Something funny happened before my date, though.”

“Was this before or after the deranged killer threatened to blow up your mother?” Lassiter regretted the question almost instantly, as even in the semi-dark room he could see Shawn go pale.

“After,” he said, sounding steady but slightly detached.

Lassiter sighed and went into the kitchen to get them both a drink, Shawn following at his heels.

“Okay,” he asked, pouring two shots of whiskey and handing one to Spencer, “what happened?”

Shawn took too big of a gulp of his drink and choked. “God, that’s awful,” he sputtered. “How do you drink that?”

“You’re supposed to sip it, not chug it.”

“I think I’d rather have pineapple schnapps,” Shawn said, but took a more measured drink from the glass while Lassiter tried to wait patiently for him to get to the point.

Shawn's eyes darted restlessly around the kitchen, looking anywhere but at Lassiter. "You were really mad at me today, Lassie."

Lassiter felt a twinge of anger even at the reminder. "If she had died because of what you did..." he let the sentence trail off, still disgusted with Shawn for pulling that stunt with the phone.

"The reason everyone else has always lost to Yang is because they always play by her rules," Shawn said fiercely, and now he was focused on Lassiter, angry and intent. "The only way to win is to stop playing her game."

"You got lucky," Lassiter said furiously. "You took that girl's life in your hands. And how did not playing by Yang's rules work out for you, Spencer? How did it work out for your mother?"

For a second, Lassiter thought that Shawn might actually punch him; he looked that mad. But he shook it off quickly, picking up his glass and taking another drink.

"Everyone is fine," he said, and it was almost believable, except that Lassiter could hear the tremor in his voice, "and we caught Yang. I didn't come here to argue with you."

"Why did you come here?"

Shawn shrugged, reached for the bottle and poured himself another shot. “Did you question her?”

“Yes,” Lassiter replied, almost that Shawn hadn't changed the subject completely.

“Did she have, you know, a good reason for going after my mom?”

“She’s crazy, Spencer,” Lassiter said gently, “and she’s been reading about you in the papers and developed an obsession with you. That’s all the reason she needs. Is that why you’re here? To find out more about Yang?”

“It’s like…I can’t shut my brain off tonight. I thought maybe keeping the date with Abigail would help, you know, give me something new to think about, but…” he trailed off. “I heard that you had dinner with your wife the other night. Are you guys getting back together?”

“Not your concern,” Lassiter said harshly, pissed that Shawn had even brought it up. “And why the fuck would that matter to you?”

Shawn set his glass down and moved in closer to Lassiter. Too close, Lassiter thought, but he didn’t move away. Gently, Shawn plucked at the collar of Lassiter’s shirt, looking up at him with his steady hazel eyes.

“We have unfinished business between us Lassie, and you know it.”

Glaring at him in disbelief, Lassiter snapped, “You’re the one who made the rules in the first place!”

“Yeah. You might have noticed, I’ve never been good at following rules. Come on,” he said quietly, crowding into Lassiter’s personal space as he spoke, “just help me forget for a little while. One night only.”

Lassiter thought back to what he had told Victoria, that he had never seized the moment or let his emotions carry him. Hesitantly, he put his hand against Shawn’s face, feeling the rough prickle of stubble against his palm. He stroked his thumb across that lying, duplicitous mouth and felt Shawn shiver against him.

“Did you kiss her?” he asked without meaning to.

“Yeah,” Shawn whispered, like he was confessing to something criminal. “Just a goodnight kiss. Gus was there, so –“

That almost broke the spell that Lassiter felt like he was under. He stared at Shawn in disbelief. “You took Guster on your date with your dream girl?”

“It’s his car,” Shawn admitted, abashed. “And it was kind of a crazy night, if you’ll remember.”

Lassiter did remember, and it made him rethink what he was doing. “This is a mistake. You went through an insane ordeal and now you’re not thinking clearly.”

“Maybe not. All I know is that I was out with a girl that I’ve wanted since high school, and all I could think about all night is how much I would rather have been with you.”

Whatever defense Lassiter had tried to build up crumbled. He leaned forward and kissed Shawn, thinking all the while that this was a terrible idea, and also that he didn’t care that it was a terrible idea, because it was such a relief to feel Shawn pressed up against him again.

He could feel Shawn’s hands moving to his chest, his fingers hurriedly pulling open the buttons of his shirt, and he pushed Shawn against the side of the refrigerator, grabbing his wrists and pinning them over his head. Shawn stared at him, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

“Lassie, what are you doing? Let me –”

“No,” Lassiter said, and even to his own ears his voice sounded husky and strange, “if we’re going to do this again, then we’re going to take it slow.”

“But –”

“No,” Lassiter said again, pressing Shawn’s wrists a little harder against the wall and watching as Shawn’s eyes dilated further, the tip of his tongue coming out to lick at his lips, either from nerves or lust, Lassiter didn’t know. “You want me to help you forget? Then you’re going to have to give up control of the situation for once.”

Shawn tilted his head back and closed his eyes, like he was seriously considering this, before agreeing. “Whatever you say, Lassie.”

"Good," Lassiter said, but didn't loosen his grip on Shawn's wrists. "Now, tell me what you want."

A jumble of different emotions seemed to cross Shawn's expression in a matter of seconds, but his response was a snort of disbelief. "I wanna fuck, Lassie. It's not that complicated."

"No," Lassiter said evenly, pushing into him a little, "that's not a good enough answer. Tell me what you really want."

Shawn looked discombobulated, like this was not going the way he had expected at all. "I want to be able to close my eyes and not see..." he shook his head and made a noise of frustration. "You know what I want? I want you inside me this time."

Which was how Carlton Lassiter found himself with Shawn stretched out beneath him on his bed, Shawn’s hands gripping the slats of the headboard so tightly that his knuckles were white, as Lassiter kissed and licked and bit his way down Shawn’s chest.

Lassiter was still mostly dressed, but Shawn was stripped down to his boxer briefs, and Lassiter watched the growing wet spot on the front of his shorts in fascination. He was doing that to Shawn, not the high school sweetheart or O’Hara or any of the bevy of admirers that Shawn seemed to be able to conjure up with the snap of his fingers. He ghosted a hand over the thin cotton fabric and felt Shawn shiver and arch into the touch, gasping in frustration as Lassiter moved his hand away.

“Jesus, Lassie, you’re killing me here.”

“You’ll live,” Lassiter murmured, stroking a thumb along the line of skin right above the waistband of the shorts, before moving down a bit more so he could mouth at Shawn’s cock through the cotton, hearing Shawn make an inarticulate sound of pleasure as his hands came down and buried in Lassiter’s hair.

Lassiter immediately stopped what he was doing. “No grabbing,” he said. “Hands back up.”

Shawn complied, but slowly, watching Lassiter through narrowed eyes. “If that’s the way you want it, why not just handcuff me? I’d let you.”

The image that conjured, of Shawn handcuffed to the headboard, hard and wanting and willing, was hot enough to make Lassiter catch his breath, but he shook it off.

“I’m not interested in making it easy for you,” Lassiter replied, slipping his fingers under the waistband of the shorts and unhurriedly pulling them down, hearing Shawn hiss with relief as he was finally free of the confinement. He traced a fingertip lightly across the tip of his cock, and Shawn groaned.

“You’re such a tease, Lassie. Would you please just –” he moaned loudly as Lassiter took the head into his mouth, sucking hard as he fisted the length of Shawn’s cock in his hand to keep him from thrusting up. He took his time about it, watching Shawn writhe against the sheets, his fingers tight on the headboard, his face a study in concentrated bliss. Lassiter had expected a lot of babbling, so he was a little surprised by how quiet Shawn was being. He would have worried over it if it weren’t for the fact that he could see that Shawn was biting his bottom lip so hard that he was a little concerned that it might start bleeding.

He stopped what he was doing after a few minutes, not wanting to bring this to an end yet, and Shawn whimpered in disappointment.

“Sweet pineapple pancakes, Lassie, why’d you stop?”

Lassiter stood up and started getting undressed. “Roll over,” he ordered.

“I will,” Shawn said, “but I wanna watch the striptease first.”

He shucked his clothes quickly, suddenly self-conscious for the first time all night from the intense way Shawn’s gaze seemed to flicker over him like he was memorizing everything he saw.

Once he was naked he crawled back onto the bed, and when Shawn pulled him in for a kiss, he didn’t chastise him for moving his hands again but instead sank into the kiss, reveling in the skin-to-skin contact. His dick was pressed against Shawn’s hip, and he moaned at the sensation. Rubbing against him shamelessly, Shawn licked into his mouth, kissing him with what felt like three years worth of pent-up passion.

Lassiter broke it off though when he felt Shawn’s hand sliding down between them, his destination obvious. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Shawn to touch him; he was just afraid that he would go off like a horny fifteen year old if he did.

So he grabbed Shawn’s hand to stop him from exploring, and pushed him over onto his stomach, grabbing a pillow from the other side of the bed to put under his hips, then reached over into the nightstand to pull out condoms and lube. Shawn watched, smirking slightly.

“My psychic senses always told me that you’d be a wild thing in the bedroom, Lassie.”

Lassiter didn’t reply, but leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss between Shawn’s shoulder blades, making him sigh softly, then smacked him – hard – on the ass.

“No bringing up fake psychic visions while we’re doing this,” he ordered.

Shawn drew in a sharp breath, followed by a shaky laugh. “How long have you wanted to do that, Detective? Fantasize about it often?”

“Often enough,” Lassiter admitted, drawing a fingertip down Shawn’s spine, following a bead of sweat to the small of his back, feeling Shawn shudder in response to the light touch.

Lassiter squeezed out some of the lube onto his fingers, saying as he did “You’ve done this before, right?”

“What? Been spanked? No, but I’m totally willing to…ohhhhh. Fuck. You have long fingers, Lassie. Holy kumquats, that feels…” he buried his face into the pillow, thrusting back to meet Lassiter’s probing fingers.

“Answer the question, Spencer,” Lassiter said, fighting to maintain some semblance of control. He couldn’t remember ever wanting anything as much as wanted to be inside Shawn at that moment.

“Yeah, yeah, I have, not in a couple of years. What I want to know – oh yeah, right there Lassie – is if you’ve done this before.”

Lassiter didn’t answer, which he knew was probably all the answer that Shawn needed. He and Victoria had experimented with anal sex a few times, but with other men he'd never gone further than a few furtive blowjobs. He thought he probably had a pretty firm grasp on the basics, though. Shawn, at least, didn't seem to be complaining so far.

“Please, please, please, would you just fuck me already, Lassie? I can’t take anymore of this.”

Lassiter wasn’t sure he could take much more of it either, but it was embarrassingly gratifying to hear Spencer begging. He thought he’d like to hear it some more.

“Not yet,” he ground out, nipping at Shawn’s shoulder and drawing his hand across the soft skin of his ass, the back of his thighs, urging him to spread his legs so he could fondle his balls. Shawn grunted with pleasure, squirming deliciously under Lassiter’s hand.

“LassieLassieLassie please, please,” Shawn moaned, and Lassiter, so hard and aching he couldn’t think straight anymore, felt his self-control slip away.

“Okay, okay,” he gasped, reaching for the condom packet, “just one more minute,” he promised, and he wasn’t certain if he was talking to Shawn or himself.

He had just ripped open the little foil packet when Shawn said “Wait,” and Lassiter’s heart stopped for a second because he thought he might literally die if Shawn backed out of this now.

“Wait,” Shawn said again, rolling over so that he was facing Lassiter. “Let me.”

He took the condom from Lassiter and rolled it on with shaking hands. Lassiter had to close his eyes at the sensation of Shawn’s hand on his cock.

“Not so easy to be Mr. Stoic-Tough-Guy now, is it?” Shawn asked, smirking evilly as he stroked lube on over the condom, while Lassiter groaned, finally at the end of his tether.

Shawn lay back, pulling Lassiter with him. “I wanna be able to see you,” he said, and Lassiter nodded, beyond speech as he finally pushed into Shawn.

“Christ, Lassie,” Shawn gasped, “Jesus Christ.”

Lassiter tried to take it slow, really he did, but the friction, and the heat and the simple fact that it was Shawn underneath him, around him, made it impossible. He felt like he had been waiting for this moment not merely for the hour or so that he’d had Shawn in his bed, but since the first time Shawn had danced into his police station with his lies and his exuberance and his damnably brilliant crime-solving abilities.

Pleasure sparked through him as he found a rhythm that had Shawn babbling a stream of nonsense and digging his fingers into Lassiter’s hips. The sensation of Shawn’s erection grazing against his stomach was strange – not bad, just strange. Different from anything he’d ever experienced with a woman. He bent his head to lick at Shawn’s collarbone, the taste of sweat salty on his tongue.

He could feel the orgasm building low in his belly, and he reached between them to take hold of Shawn’s cock, stroking it firmly, knowing only that he wanted to make Shawn come first.

Shawn moaned loudly at the touch of his hand. “Yes, fuck, Lassie.” He reached up and pulled Lassiter down for a kiss, frantic and sloppy, breaking it off as his breathing grew more erratic and he finally came, hot and slick on Lassiter’s skin.

Shawn’s orgasm caused his muscles to clench tight around Lassiter, who followed him quickly over the edge, burying his face against Shawn’s shoulder to muffle his shout of pleasure.

For a moment, neither of them moved, until Lassiter lifted his head. Shawn’s eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed, his usually impeccable hair mussed. Lassiter felt an unexpected surge of possessiveness. Shawn was his, no matter how many psycho serial killers or gun-wielding assassins or nutcases with machetes tried to take him away. He brushed the sweat-soaked hair off of Shawn’s forehead and kissed his temple lightly, a little worried that Shawn had made no attempt to speak or move away yet.

“Hey,” he whispered, “are you still alive in there?”

Shawn smiled slightly, a hand petting down Lassiter’s back soothingly. “Maybe. Let me get back to you on that.”

After a minute more of peace, Shawn patted him lightly on the hip and said regretfully, “Okay big guy, as much as I like you on top of me, you have to move now.”

With a sigh, Lassiter rolled off of him and stumbled to the bathroom to discard of the condom and get a damp washcloth to clean them both off with. By the time he got back to the bed, Shawn was already half asleep.

“Want me to leave?” Shawn mumbled, not looking at him as he climbed back into bed.

“What?” Lassiter asked, confused. “No, of course not. You can sleep here.”

“Thanks, Lassie,” he yawned, and was asleep before Lassiter was finished wiping the semen off of his stomach. Lassiter watched him for a few minutes, so unnaturally still and quiet in sleep, before he drifted off himself.

Lassiter wasn’t sure how long he slept, but it was still mostly dark out when he woke up. He was almost surprised to find that Shawn was still there, stretched out on the opposite side of the bed giving Lassiter plenty of space. He was awake too, his sleepy gaze focused on Lassiter.

“So,” Shawn said, his tone casual though his voice was raspy with sleep, “did I totally just deflower you of your assginity? Well no, I guess we would have had to do it the other way for that to be true, but you know what I mean.”

“Spencer!”

“Deflower, deflower. That’s a weird word,” Shawn mused. “I’ve been with my fair share of people, and I’ve never noticed any flowers down there. Well, there was this one girl in Argentina who –”

“Is this your idea of appropriate pillow talk?”

Shawn grinned. “I’m just trying to break the ice, to keep things from being too awkward.”

“I fail to see how this conversation is making things less awkward,” Lassiter grumbled.

“We’re talking instead of trying to avoid looking at one another,” Shawn pointed out, and Lassiter had to concede that he was right.

There really was an awkward silence after that, before Lassiter remembered something that Shawn had said earlier, before…well, before.

“You never told me what happened,” Lassiter said.

“Hmmm? What are you talking about?”

“When you came here tonight, you said that something funny happened before your date.”

“Oh. That.” Shawn rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling now, something in his expression suddenly closed off. “It wasn’t really funny ha-ha. It was more funny uh-oh. Jules asked me out.”

“What?” Lassiter asked, shocked. “You mean on a date?”

“I think she would have let me hold her hand and everything,” Shawn said flippantly, but Lassiter could sense the seriousness behind his words.

“What did you tell her?”

He laughed a little, though he didn’t sound especially amused. “I told her that her timing sucked because I already had a date.”

Lassiter sighed and closed his eyes. Stupid, stupid, he was so stupid to have done this. Spencer had been chasing after O’Hara for years. It figured that she would pick now to give in to him. “Why are you here?” he asked, wondering what possible reason Shawn could have had for coming to him when he could have had Abigail or Juliet helping him forget his troubles.

Shawn didn’t say anything, just scooted close enough that he could kiss Lassiter, lightly at first, then deeper when Lassiter didn’t stop him.

After a moment, Lassiter pulled away long enough to say “That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is,” Shawn said, kissing him again, and Lassiter temporarily forgot what he had been worried about.

The next time Lassiter woke up, it was light out, and he was alone. He didn’t see Shawn again for more than a month.


	6. Chapter 6

“So, what’s up for today?” Gus asked as he sat down behind his desk. “Hit the station, see what Lassiter and Juliet are working on?”

“Mmm, no, I don’t think so,” Shawn said, not looking up from his laptop and the game of freecell he was currently owning. “How about a round of mini golf and then for lunch we buy one thing from every food truck that we see?”

“You know,” Gus said carefully, “we haven’t been to the station in a week. Not since the Yang case. Are you sure you don’t want to go down there and see what’s happening?”

“It’s too beautiful a day to waste on crime, Gus!”

Gus took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself, before asking “Shawn, are you thinking about quitting Psych?”

“What?” Shawn asked, startled. “Dude, don’t be that mole on Henry’s back. I just think we could use a little vacation, you know? Hit the arcade, see some movies, check out the beach volleyball tournaments.”

“That sounds good,” Gus said, relaxing a bit. “It has been a stressful few months. Hey, we should go to the carnival on the boardwalk this weekend.”

“No can do, buddy,” Shawn said, grabbing the Nerf football on his desk and tossing it through the basketball hoop on the opposite wall. “I’m taking Abigail on Saturday. I owe her a trip to the carnival.”

“You’re really going out with Abigail again?” Gus asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, yeah. Does the first one even count as a date? I mean, you were in the backseat, so she would have felt uncomfortable making the move on me that she obviously wanted to make. She’s a shy little minx.”

“She wasn’t going to make a move on you, Shawn! It was your first date. She hadn’t even seen you in months, and before that, she hadn’t seen you in years!”

“Exactly! I’m sure it took all of her willpower for her to keep her hands off of me. Luckily, on Saturday it will just be me and her, and she won’t have to restrain herself at all. I’m picturing an x-rated carousel ride.”

Gus looked disturbed, and also confused. “How would you…never mind. Don’t be crude about Abigail, Shawn. She’s a nice girl.”

“All the girls I date are nice. That doesn’t mean they don’t like it dirty.”

Gus picked up the foam football and threw it at Shawn’s head. “Don’t try and tell me what girls like.”

Shawn ducked so that the ball hit the window behind him. “Someone has to, Gus! Otherwise, how will you learn?”

Gus tsked in exasperation and changed the subject back to where he had started. “So we’re not taking any cases right now? For how long?”

“If we have any walk-in cases, we’ll take them under consideration. I was just thinking that we could take a break from going down to the station and trying to get hired on. Maybe you should call the Chief and tell her that we’re on vacation.”

“Um, why do I have to call the Chief? Why can’t you do that?”

“I’m the psychic detective half of our psychic detective business. You’re the business half. Or, would that only make you one third? Either way, it’s your job to call her.”

“Fine,” Gus huffed in annoyance, “I’ll call her later. Are you sure you want to do this, though? You know how bored you get when you don’t have a case to work.”

“I won’t get bored,” Shawn promised. “I’m going to take it easy, enjoy some sun, some fun…do you think it’s too soon to ask Abigail if she’d like to take a trip? I think I’d like to go skiing.”

“You’ve been on one date that even you agree wasn’t a real date. It’s definitely too soon.”

“Pffft. You’re an old fuddy-duddy. I bet she’d think it was spontaneous and romantic and all that other crap that girls want.”

“Yeah,” Gus said, clearly not impressed, “you really know what women want.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Shawn said, standing up and stretching. “I’m gonna need some sustenance if I have to explain to you about girls again.”

It would be easier this way, Shawn thought. He needed to go cold turkey on his Lassiter fixation, because otherwise he was going to be in trouble. Might already be in trouble, if he was honest with himself.

There were good reasons to stay away from the station for a while, reasons that were easy to explain to Gus or the Chief or Henry or anyone else that asked. Yang really had done a number on his head. He and Gus had been working pretty solidly at Psych for a couple of years now, and they deserved a little time off.

No one had to know that the real reason he hadn’t been to the station in a week was that he wasn’t sure he could control his reaction when he saw Lassiter again. He needed some time to get past the mind-blowing sex and the warm, goopy feelings he was having before he could face Lassie with any kind of appearance of normalcy. As it was, he still couldn’t even think about Lassie without his palms sweating. It was scary, and weird, and he didn’t like it.

If it weren’t for Gus and Psych, he would have been on his motorcycle and out of town days ago.

So, drastic steps needed to be taken. First, the vacation. Second, Abigail. Maybe it was time he attempted something more serious in the relationship arena. Maybe he was so stuck on Lassie because he was tired of one-night stands and flirtations that he knew weren’t going anywhere. Abigail Lytar had always lived in his memory as the One Who Got Away, so maybe it was time to finally catch her and see what happened.

As for Lassie…well, Shawn was really doing him a favor, right? He hadn’t called or come by Shawn’s apartment, so he clearly wanted to pretend that night had never happened. And here was Shawn’s gift to him, to stay away from police work for a few weeks. Lassie would probably thank him the next time he saw him, for being so considerate.

Shawn Spencer was a jackass.

Lassiter had known that for years, so he had only himself to blame if he hadn't remembered that little fact sooner. After he had woken up and found Shawn gone, he had been tempted to call and check on him, but he stifled the impulse. He, at least, was a grown man, not a teenager, even if the same couldn’t be said for Spencer.

Shawn was the one who had left, without a word or a note, and he knew where to find Lassiter if he wanted to talk. Shawn had never suggested that he intended for them to have more than a one-night stand, and Lassiter would have been an idiot to assume otherwise.

Besides, he had a job to do. A demanding, high-pressure job that was better done without any hyperactive civilians around screwing things up.

So he worked, and at mid-week when O’Hara asked him if he’d heard anything from Shawn, he snapped that he wasn’t Spencer’s keeper and thank God for that. There was enough to keep him busy that he didn’t have much time to dwell on how Shawn had tasted, or the way his fingers had curled into Lassiter’s bicep when he came, or the desperate, hungry sound he made when Lassiter kissed him. Nope, no time at all to think about such trivial things.

There was, however, time to kick himself for the dumb, juvenile thoughts that had gone through his head during that night with Shawn. Thinking of Shawn as his, as if what had passed between them had been anything more than merely physical. He must have been out of his mind.

It was a little more than a week after the Yang case and the night that followed that Guster came into the station. Lassiter and Juliet had just returned from questioning witnesses in a jewelry store robbery and were going to their desks to write up the reports when the door to the Chief’s office opened and Gus came out.

“Gus!” Juliet said, automatically looking around for Shawn, “what are you doing here?”

“I came to pick up the check for the Yang case,” Gus said, as he came over to her desk, looking both at her and at Lassiter, “and to let the Chief know that Psych is taking a vacation.”

“Oh?” Juliet asked. “Are you and Shawn going out of town?”

“Nah…well. Maybe. Shawn was talking about a trip, but I don’t think he was serious. No, we’re just taking a few weeks off. I think Shawn needed some recovery time after Yang, you know, to get his psychic receptors firing on all cylinders again.”

Lassiter kindly refrained from saying “Bullshit,” even though he really, really wanted to. Being rude to Guster without Spencer around wasn’t as satisfying.

“So what are you guys going to do with your time off?” Juliet asked, and god, she was just too nice, Lassiter thought.

Gus shrugged. “You know, catch some movies, hang out at the beach. And Shawn’s started dating a girl we knew in high school, Abigail, so I think he wants to spend some time with her.”

“How sweet!” Juliet said, so chirpily that even Gus looked disturbed.

“Fantastic,” Lassiter said, not caring if the bitterness he was feeling seeped into his voice, “Tell him not to hurry back to work. In fact, let him know that he should feel free to never come back at all. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a job to do, and it would be rude of us to start celebrating that we have a break from you two dunderheads while you’re still standing here.”

He half expected O’Hara to scold him, but she remained quiet. Gus, clearly accustomed to Lassiter’s bad manners, just gave a polite goodbye to Juliet while ignoring Lassiter, and left.

“You know what?” Lassiter said, as soon as Gus was out of earshot, “I’m going down to the range and get in some target practice before I start on these reports.”

“Good idea,” O’Hara said as she stared after Gus, all traces of perkiness suddenly gone. “I think I’ll come with you.”

Back at the Psych office, Gus found Shawn looking through Val Kilmer websites.

“Did the Chief cry when you told her we were taking some time off?”

“That’s sexist, Shawn. Does the Chief seem like a crier to you? She said to tell you to enjoy your vacation.”

“I bet she cried after you left. And it’s not sexist, Gus. I’m sure Buzz cries when he hears too.”

“Well, one person who definitely isn’t going to cry over it is Lassiter. He said to tell you not to bother to come back.”

Shawn paused in typing out his passionate defense of Val’s performance in The Island of Dr. Moreau and looked up at Gus.

“You saw Lassie?” he asked, his voice going embarrassingly squeaky, and yeah, there were those sweaty palms again. He cleared his throat and tried to look cool. Gus didn't seem to notice.

“Well, I was at the station,” Gus pointed out, “and he does practically live there. Juliet was there too.”

“What did you tell them?” Shawn asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Gus shrugged as he flipped open his laptop. “The truth, you know, that we were just going to take it easy for a few weeks, and that you wanted to spend some time with your new girlfriend.” He looked over at Shawn and frowned. “Are you feeling okay? You look kind of sick.”

“Bad burrito,” Shawn said faintly, which was probably true because what else could be making his stomach twist up in knots?

“I told you not to buy anything from that food cart on the pier! Last time we were there, I saw the vendor handling his meat without putting on gloves or washing his hands.”

“I’m going to ignore the way you phrased that, because I know what you meant,” Shawn said, “and after the mental image you’ve just provided me, I can guarantee that I’ll never eat there again.”

“Gross, Shawn!” Gus said, scrunching up his nose. “Now I feel sick too. Let's talk about something else. How was your date with Abigail last night?”

“It was nice,” Shawn said, returning his attention to the Val Kilmer forum, “We went to the carnival. We rode the Ferris wheel twice and I won her a stuffed elephant at the ring toss.”

“I thought those games were always rigged.”

“Not always! Especially not if you stop by earlier in the day and give the guy who runs it an extra twenty bucks to make sure you win.”

“That’s bribing, not winning,” Gus pointed out.

“Agree to disagree.”

“So it was just ‘nice’? You don’t have anything else to say about your first real date with the girl I had to listen to you spend all of high school mooning over?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells,” Shawn said primly.

Gus snorted in disbelief. “You’re no gentleman. So, does that mean there was kissing?”

“When did you turn into such a gossipy old lady, Gus? Yes, if you must know, there was kissing. What did YOU do last night?”

“I memorized the protocols for a new athlete’s foot cream and ironed all of my clothes for this week.”

Shawn stared at him in horror. “At least now I understand why you have to live vicariously through my kissing stories. Come on,” he said, shutting down his computer and standing up, “let’s go use your season passes to the Aquarium and see if we can find you a hot marine biologist to be your girlfriend.”

“Okay,” Gus agreed, “but only because I want to see the sea lions.”

Shawn and Abigail had been dating for nearly three weeks when she offered to cook him dinner at her place, which led, quite naturally, to making out with her on her sofa.

It had been three weeks of what Shawn privately thought of as “PG dating”: they had gone to movies and on a picnic, been to the beach and to the zoo. They had held hands and kissed and, well, maybe there had been a little above-the-waist groping, but nothing that would make even Gus blush. Until now.

Now, she was in his lap, kissing for all she was worth, her fingernails scraping lightly against the back of his neck, and from her soft little moan when he licked into her mouth, things were definitely ramping up to R-rated territory. This was good, Shawn thought as he kissed her, slipping a hand under her shirt and curving his fingers around her breast. No, better than good. Amazing. After this, he would forget about the night with Lassiter. This was just what he needed, a pretty girl who wanted him. A girl that Gus liked, and Henry would approve of, a girl he enjoyed spending time with. So much better than stupid Lassiter, with his strong hands and clever mouth and his inability to let Shawn get away with anything. This would prove that…

“Shawn?”

He blinked, refocusing on Abigail, who, he suddenly realized, wasn’t kissing him anymore.

“What’s going on?” she asked softly, brushing a hand across his cheek. “I have a feeling you’re not really into this.”

“Of course I am!” he said immediately. “I don’t know why you would think that!”

She backed away slightly, and he hastily removed his hand from her breast. “Well,” she said wryly, “it might have been the way you stopped kissing me and started staring off into space.”

Had he really done that?

“Sorry!” he apologized. “It was a, um, psychic vision that distracted me! A very powerful one! It won’t happen again.”

He reached for her to try to recapture the earlier mood, but she stopped him.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” she said.

No, no, no, no. This was not part of the plan at all. “Abby, don’t say that. I really like you. I’m sorry if –-”

“I really like you too, Shawn,” she interrupted, “but every time we’re together, I get the feeling that you’d rather be with someone else.”

“No!” he protested, “that’s crazy talk.”

“I’m not mad,” she said gently, “But it’s not fair for either of us to pretend that this is going somewhere when it’s not.”

“We can slow down, we don’t have to do this tonight.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that we’re going too fast. If anything, we've been going slower than I expected. It’s that you always seem like you’re a million miles away. And come on Shawn, you just zoned out while I was trying to get you to third base! It doesn’t seem to me like you want this. I’d rather stop now, while we’re still friends.”

He opened his mouth to argue some more – this was supposed to work, damn it! – but found that he had nothing to refute her words with.

Instead, he leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. “Abigail, I’m so sorry. I really wanted this to work.”

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I think maybe our timing was just bad, you know? Another time, another place…” she trailed off, then said “I’m just curious: is it that detective?”

His eyes snapped open and he sat up. “What?” he asked, alarmed. Was he really that transparent?

Abigail didn’t seem surprised by his agitation. “I don’t blame you. You work together, and she’s so pretty.”

“Oh,” he said, relaxing a little. “Jules. No, we’re just friends. I mean, I used to think…but no.”

“If you say so,” Abigail said, in a way that suggested that she clearly didn’t believe him, and he knew that it was time for him to leave.

She hugged him awkwardly at the door, and he briefly considered trying to talk her into giving him another chance because she was Abigail Lytar for god's sake, and this was supposed to work. However, the expression on her face was one of resolve, and he knew he would be better off not even trying.

As he got on his bike and realized that the feeling flooding through him was relief and not disappointment, he knew that Abigail had made the right decision.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! We're finally in S4! This takes place during the events of the episode "Extradition: British Columbia". There is a tiny amount of dialogue taken directly from the episode that should be credited to Steve Franks and Andy Berman.

Going back to the station felt odd after avoiding the place for the past few weeks, but Gus convinced him that if Shawn wanted to beg for an advance, then he was going to have to come along and do it himself.

Gus wasn’t as completely on board with his ski trip idea as Shawn wanted him to be, but he also seemed to be trying to be considerate of Shawn’s feelings in the wake of Abigail dumping him. Gus hadn’t seemed surprised that the relationship had ended so quickly, just annoyed with Shawn for not trying harder. In fact, he seemed far more upset over it than Shawn felt. Shawn wondered if it would be weird if he tried to set up Gus with Abigail; he thought they might be perfect for each other. Even thinking that made him realize that he must really be over Abigail if he was considering pairing her up with his best friend.

Neither Lassiter nor O’Hara were at their desks, and Shawn felt a momentary surge of hope that they might be able to get through this visit without running into either of the detectives, but that hope was dashed when they went into Chief Vick’s office and found Lassiter getting his performance review.

The review must have been going okay, Shawn thought, because Lassie looked at ease until he saw Shawn. It was hard to focus on how closed off his expression suddenly became though, because his new haircut was demanding all of Shawn’s attention.

He ignored how his heart sped up when he saw Lassie, even though Lassie was glaring at him in a way that suggested that if he had laser vision, he would be using it to turn Shawn into ashes. Did lasers turn things to ash? Shawn would have to ask Gus later. Right now, he had to make jokes about Lassie’s hair and try to charm Chief Vick into giving them an advance and, most importantly, not throw himself at Lassiter in a fit of unbridled lust.

It was harder than he thought it would be, but somehow he persevered, though sadly Chief Vick turned down his request for money. He barely cared though, because just spending a few minutes with Lassie after weeks of separation made him feel giddy. Even the terrible haircut didn’t give him pause.

He was in real trouble here. Hair was of paramount importance.

“Shawn, have you heard a word I said?”

Gus was glaring at him now, in much the same manner that Lassie had been earlier.

“Sorry Gus, I was busy compiling a list of insults to use on Lassie the next time I see him. Do you think it’s too late for a Sinead O’Connor reference? Nah,” he mused, answering his own question, “it’s always the right time for Sinead.”

Gus just shook his head. “Whatever, dude. What I was trying to ask you was if you were absolutely certain about this trip. I know you might lose your deposit on the hotel room, but if it’s going to be weird for you since you had planned to take Abigail…”

“Are you kidding? It’s going to be awesome. I am kind of regretting booking the room with the king sized bed instead of getting a room with two beds, but I’m sure there will be a chair or something you can sleep in.”

“You must be out of your damn mind if you think I’m sleeping anywhere but in that bed.”

“Why Gus, I didn’t know you felt that way! I’ve always wanted a spring wedding, but I know you’re set on having a Christmas one, so I think we should compromise and go for a fall ceremony. Our colors can be orange and burnt sienna, and our reception will be a costume party.”

“Burnt sienna IS orange,” Gus said, “and while I like the idea of a costume party reception, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last person on earth.”

“That hurts, right here in my heart area,” Shawn said, waving a hand over his chest. “If you think I’m sharing a bed with you after that, think again.”

He had a feeling that once Gus figured out that it had been his credit card Shawn had used to procure the room in the first place, he was going to end up on the floor anyway. He just hoped it didn’t get him kicked out of the room entirely. For the time being, what Gus didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either one of them.

Vancouver was beautiful, just as Shawn knew it would be. It was also several thousand miles away from certain attractive detectives, as well as overbearing fathers, and that made it all the more of an idyllic vacation spot. It was just him and Gus, hanging out and having fun and flirting with snowbunnies. Until he saw Pierre Despereaux.

Spotting Despereaux was thrilling on several fronts: it turned his vacation into an adventure, it was the opportunity to capture an international art thief, which would be a first, as well as the opportunity to make money from said capture, and it gave him a really good excuse to call Lassiter (though why Lassie thought he had been breaking into his apartment, he didn’t know. He’d only done it once, to retrieve a sock he’d left behind).

He wasn’t surprised when Lassiter showed up, Jules in tow. There was no way Lassie would let Shawn get the upper hand in capturing a criminal that he had on his “Most Wanted” wall of fame. It complicated things maybe, but Shawn couldn’t deny the rush of pleasure he got from working with Lassie again. He needed to move past all these inappropriate and inconvenient feelings and go back to the way things used to be.

Maybe Despereaux himself could help with that, Shawn thought. Maybe he had the wrong idea in believing Abigail could help him get past the Lassiter thing; maybe what he really needed was to spend the night with another guy. In a different set of circumstances, he wouldn’t mind playing Rene Russo to Despereaux’s Pierce Brosnan, though he wasn’t interested in recreating the sex scene on the staircase, as that had looked more painful than hot.

He got the perfect opportunity to make that fantasy a reality when he found himself alone in a hotel room with Despereaux. All it would take would be a little more obvious flirtation, a little physical contact, and, well, nature would take its course. Despereaux standing there admiring his investigative skills in his smooth-like-satin accent was heady stuff; under different circumstances Shawn was pretty certain this encounter would end with a little boom boom boom.

But. Sleeping with the suspect he was trying to catch seemed like an ethical gray area that even he wasn't certain he wanted to cross. And, a tiny part of his brain piped up, while Despereaux did have nice blue eyes, they weren’t as gorgeous as Lassie’s, and while his cool British accent was hot, it somehow didn’t measure up to the way Lassiter’s voice got all deep and rumbly when he was turned on. The fact was, while he was attracted to Despereaux, it wasn’t the same sort of bone deep longing that he felt for Lassiter.

He stomped ruthlessly on that tiny, unhelpful voice. The reason to not do this was that sleeping with a suspect was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and also he wasn’t certain he even wanted to because of Las—NO. Because it was wrong. That was absolutely, definitely, his only reason for leaving Despereaux and going back to his own hotel.

When he got there, he was surprised to find Lassiter in the lobby waiting for him.

“Where have you been? Guster’s been back for a couple of hours.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Shawn prevaricated. He wanted to save the new information he had acquired about Despereaux until morning at least, so he could have a chance to mull over it a little longer.

“I haven’t spoken to him,” Lassiter said, “I was waiting for you.”

“Oooh,” Shawn said hopefully, “you wanted to get me alone while we’re here in another country? Lassie, you dirty dog, I approve.”

“Don’t do that,” Lassiter said irritably. “What about your girlfriend, huh Spencer? What would she think about you propositioning me?”

Shawn blinked at him in surprise. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Lassie. Abigail and I went out for a few weeks, but we broke up. That’s why I’m here with Gus and not with her.”

Lassiter shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, to make sure that we were clear about it being a one time thing.”

“Actually,” Shawn said flippantly, “it was a two time thing. Three if you count doing it twice in one night, and I think we should. So, a three time thing. And here we are, outside of Santa Barbara, we could totally go for four, and it wouldn’t even be breaking any of the rules.”

“No,” Lassiter said fiercely. “I’m not here for you to use any time you get horny and bored, Spencer.”

“I was hoping we were both horny and bored,” Shawn said, “but I’m starting to sense that that’s not the case. Don’t accuse me of ‘using’ you, Lassiter. We had a mutual agreement and you know it.”

“You’re right, we did,” Lassiter agreed. “What I wanted to make clear to you tonight is that it’s over. Completely. Never to be repeated.”

Trying to hide his disappointment, Shawn shrugged casually. “Fine. Consider it clear.” He started to head for the elevators. “Later, Lassie.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Spencer. Where were you tonight?”

Shawn considered telling him the truth, and also considered going with a complete lie and saying that he had been hooking up with someone else, but he settled for a half-truth.

“Gus and I went on a carriage ride in the moonlight, and he kicked me out while we were in the middle of nowhere. I had to walk back to the hotel. I was nearly attacked by vicious raccoons, Lassie! It was terrible.”

Lassiter looked like he didn’t really know what to do with this information. “Raccoons?” he asked disbelievingly. “Carriage ride in the moonlight with Guster?”

“Well…I didn’t actually SEE any raccoons, but I know they were there!” He shuddered at the memory. “Watching me with their beady little eyes.”

“What do you have against raccoons?”

“Um, it makes a lot more sense than your vendetta against squirrels! Raccoons wear masks! They’re clearly up to no good.”

 

“Right,” Lassiter said, “of course.”

The elevator door opened and Shawn stepped into it. “See you in the morning, Lass” he said as the elevator doors closed.

The idle thought that he should have let the attraction between himself and Despereaux lead to something occurred to Shawn once again at Despereaux’s seaplane, as the two of them indulged in a little flirty back-and-forth (it was amazing how much he could get away with in terms of flirting with guys in front of Gus without Gus ever realizing it) before the police swarmed in. As the cops took Despereaux away, Lassiter came up behind him, putting a hand on the back of his neck as if to lead him away – a move he had done so many times over the past few years that Shawn was ashamed of himself for not realizing sooner that Lassie was attracted to him – and he forgot all about Despereaux.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Spencer?” Lassiter asked through gritted teeth, already dragging Shawn away from where Juliet and Gus stood.

“Don’t take your frustration about not being able to carry a gun here out on me!” Shawn said loudly, but it was a token protest. He was more than willing to find out what Lassiter wanted from him.

As soon as they were out of sight of the others, Lassiter gave him a little shove. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Spencer?”

“Taking my crime-solving abilities international? Well, it’s not actually the first time I’ve done that. There was this one time in Thailand –”

“With Despereaux,” Lassiter snapped. “What are you doing with Despereaux?”

“Capturing him? Figuring out his ingenious, though somewhat boring, plan? I mean, insurance fraud? Sadly unsexy after such a promising start.”

“That!” Lassiter said angrily, jabbing a finger in Shawn’s direction “That right there. You were flirting with him!”

“What’s it to you?” Shawn demanded. “You made it clear last night that you weren’t interested in getting jiggy with me anymore. I can flirt with anyone I want.”

“Don’t you have any self preservation instincts at all? He’s a criminal!”

“A criminal with good hair,” Shawn pointed out, “which puts him a step ahead of the nearest law enforcement. Myself and Jules excluded, of course.”

“You’re not law enforcement,” Lassiter scowled, “and I should have remembered sooner that you’re a fraud yourself, so it makes sense that you would be attracted to someone like Despereaux.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said, “I think we’re done here. Have a nice flight home.”

He turned to go look for Gus, half expecting that Lassiter might try and stop him. But Lassiter said nothing, and Shawn walked away with the overwhelming desire to punch something.  
***  
"Don't you think it's odd that you had planned to come here with your girlfriend, and now you're here with me?" Juliet asked hesitantly.

She and Shawn were standing on the Capilano suspension bridge. Gus had refused to come, saying that after the moonlit carriage ride, he was done with doing the romantic crap that Shawn had planned to do with Abigail. Shawn wanted to see the bridge though, and it wasn't as much fun to do touristy stuff alone as it was to share it with someone else. Lassiter certainly seemed immune to his charms at the moment, so he invited Juliet to come with him. Maybe it was a little weird to ask her along for a day that he had planned as a perfect date, but he had missed seeing her during the month he had stayed away from the station, and he wanted to try and smooth over the awkwardness they seemed to both be feeling around each other.

"I refuse to feel uncomfortable around you," he told her. "It's silly, and you mean too much to me. I'm perfectly capable of keeping this platonic as long as you are."

"Oh please, I can," she said, sounding as though she were trying to convince him that it was absurd of him to think otherwise.

"I can too," he insisted, and most of the time he thought it was true, though it was harder to feel that way at moments like this, when she was smiling up at him with her hair falling around her face.

"So, at least show me what you had planned for this perfect date," she said, and he did, though the opera singer and the balloon animals seemed a little ridiculous with no romance attached to the day. Juliet leaned against the railing overlooking the river as Shawn spun out a history of the bridge built by wolves, and even as she laughed, he was struck by the pensive expression on her face.

"Whatcha thinking about, Jules? If you're trying to imagine how the wolves built the bridge, you should probably know that they were mutant wolves. And they had jet packs."

"I was just thinking..." she paused and looked at him imploringly, "don't take this the wrong way. I meant what I said back there about us being platonic. But I was just thinking that it would be nice if somehow we all just knew who was right for us, so that we could be spared the pain of going after someone that it isn’t going to work out with. I know your powers don't work that way, but don't you sometimes wish that you could see into the future and know who you'll end up with?"

"I know who I'll end up with," Shawn said lightly. "When Gus gets married, he and his wife will adopt me, and I'll live out my days with them. It won't be as kinky as it sounds...or maybe it will be. I haven't decided yet. I'll have to meet his future wife before I make a call on that. You know,” he added thoughtfully, “you and Gus would make a very attractive couple. Your babies would be beautiful.”

Juliet laughed and punched him in the arm. "Shawn! Seriously, don't you wish that before you started dating Abigail that you knew it wasn't going to work out?"

He shook his head. "No. I like finding things out for myself. I mean, if I hadn't tried it for myself, I would never know that the deep fried Snickers bar really is as delicious as they say. Some things could never be conveyed through a psychic vision."

She rolled her eyes at him, but didn't drop the conversation the way he'd been hoping. "Do you mind if I ask, Shawn? What happened between you and Abigail?"

"Come on, let's go sit down," he said, taking her arm and leading her over to a tiny outdoor table outside of a cafe.

"It's none of my business," she said as they sat down, and he could see that cheeks were pink with embarrassment, "let's just get something to drink and talk about anything else."

"No, it's okay Jules. I don't mind telling you. She realized that I wasn't as serious about the whole relationship thing as she was, so she broke up with me."

"I'm sorry," Juliet said earnestly, "I mean, I remember seeing you two together at your high school reunion. I could tell you really cared about her."

"Yeah, well, she was right. I'm not interested in anything serious right now, or possibly ever. Me being in a real relationship would be like a blonde Molly Ringwald or an episode of Family Ties without Alex P. Keaton. It's just wrong, is what I'm saying Jules, an upset of the natural order."

She smiled at him. "I wouldn't want the natural order to be unbalanced," she agreed, "but maybe one day you'll meet the right person, and it won't be so unnatural anymore."

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something flirtatious, to try and re-establish the way their relationship had been before Abigail. It would be so easy, and she was so goddamned beautiful.

"Shawn? Are you all right? Are you having a vision?" she asked worriedly, and he realized that he had been quiet for too long, and probably staring at her like a creepy creeper.

"A vision? Yeah, something like that," he said, and it was almost true, because he could see a future where he kept chasing Juliet until he caught her, and then he would...what? Tell her he wasn't really psychic? No, because she trusted him, and he never wanted to shatter that trust. She was probably the only person in his life aside from Gus -- who knew that he wasn't psychic -- who genuinely believed in him.

So, a future in which he had a relationship with Juliet and lied to her all the time. What scared him was that he knew he was capable of doing exactly that, and he wasn't sure what kind of person that made him. Maybe not a person he wanted to be.

He lied to Lassiter all the time too, of course, but the difference was that Lassie knew he was being lied to and called him on it frequently. With Lassiter, it felt like a game, one where everyone knew the rules. But with Jules...he looked again into her trusting blue eyes, the look on her face puzzled and slightly worried at his long silence. With Jules, if they were involved and she ever found out, it would be a betrayal.

It was a surprise how much of a relief it was to know that he was closing that door. He took Juliet's hand and squeezed it. "I can't see the future," he said honestly, "but what my senses tell me is that I'm meant to be a lone wolf."

Her brow crinkled in confusion. "Doesn't your friendship with Gus prevent you from being a lone wolf, Shawn?"

"Only technically," he told her. "What I'm trying to say is --"

"It's okay, Shawn," she interrupted, "I'm not pining over you if that's what you're worried about." She looked mildly amused at the very thought.

"No!" he protested, even though he had been worried about that very thing. "You're way too cool to do anything crazy like that. I just wanted to make sure we're good. You know, as friends."

"We're very good," she assured him. "I’ll admit, I was pretty upset at first, but I spent a lot of time thinking about it over the past few weeks, and I realized that we would never work out in the long run."

"We wouldn't?" he asked, because as soon as she said the words, his natural instinct was to try and prove her wrong.

"We wouldn't," she said firmly. "First of all, I'm really focused on my career right now, and I'm not so sure I'm ready for the commitment of a serious relationship either. Second of all, please don't take this the wrong way, but I think I would be happier with someone a little more, uh, mature. Lastly, I really value what we have, Shawn. You were the first real friend I made when I came to Santa Barbara, and I wouldn't want to ruin that by trying to turn our friendship into something it's not."

Shawn wanted to protest over the maturity dig, but, well, it was fair, so he let it slide. "You're a pretty smart cookie, Juliet O'Hara."

"I like to think so," she agreed.

"Okay," Shawn said, smacking his hand on the table, "enough serious talk for today. We should be having fun. We're in Canada! It's like a whole different state!"

"You know it's a different country, right?"

"I've heard it both ways. So, the next thing I had planned to do with Abigail was to go ice skating. You in?"

"I'm so in," She agreed, "as long as I'm free to meet Carlton back at our hotel in three hours so I don't miss my flight."

At least, Shawn thought as he followed Juliet away from the cafe, he was capable of fixing his relationship with one of the detectives. He only hoped that things would get back to normal soon between him and Lassiter.

 

That night at dinner, Shawn found himself picking at his Tiki burger. Gus looked up from his plate of poutine with concern.

“Are you thinking about Abigail? I knew coming on this trip was a bad idea.”

“Nah, I’m not thinking about her. I don’t how many times I have to tell you Gus, it was mutual. She and I are cool.”

“Then what’s wrong? You have the same expression on your face now as you did back in eighth grade after Jenny Wexler gave you a wedgie during the homecoming dance.”

“I thought we had a pact to never talk about that. You bringing it up means that I’m within my rights to bring up the Carlotta Jackson incident,” Shawn said. “And I do not! Just because I’m quiet for five minutes doesn’t mean that I’m sad about anything other than the fact that this pineapple salsa is not living up to my expectations.”

“Historically it does mean you’re sad,” Gus said, after thinking it over for a brief moment, “and don’t you dare bring up Carlotta Jackson, Shawn! That was your fault, anyway. You’re the one who told her that I was a martial arts expert.”

“You were on that Bruce Lee kick, watching his movies every day! I assumed you had picked up some tips. How was I supposed to know that you couldn’t karate chop bricks with your bare hands? It was brave of you to try, though and I always thought she was in the wrong for laughing at you for crying like a little girl.”

“I nearly broke my hand, Shawn! You would have cried too,” he said sulkily, “and your attempt to distract me from the fact that something is bothering you has failed. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Seriously Gus, nothing’s wrong. I’m just suffering from post-case letdown.”

Gus shook his head. “I know your post-case-blues face, and this is not it. This is your romantic trauma face. Oh god,” he said, as a thought struck him, “this isn’t about Juliet, is it? You went out with her today to that bridge. You’re not going to start mooning over her again, are you? Because I’m not sure I can go through another three years of that.”

“I’ve never mooned over anyone,” Shawn scoffed, insulted, “and there’s nothing going on between me and Jules except for friendship and, and , the camaraderie that exists between coworkers. I’ve moved on.”

“Moved on to whom?” Gus asked, his eyes narrowed in speculation.

“No one in particular! The world is my oyster, Gus.”

Gus shrugged, unimpressed. “Not getting any younger,” he reminded him.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Burton, but we’re the same age. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“I have possibilities you don’t even know about, Shawn! I don’t tell you everything. And anyway, when I’m ready, there will be plenty of women lined up around the block for this,” he said, gesturing to himself. “You, on the other hand, will have a lot of work to do to make up for all of your flaws, so you should get started as soon as possible.”

“What flaws?” Shawn asked, outraged.

“Um, you live in a Laundromat, your ‘career’, such as it is, consists of lying to the police about your nonexistent mystical powers, and your retirement plan is the piggy bank full of pennies you keep on your dresser.”

“First of all, it’s an EX-laundromat,” Shawn said, “and the fact that I’ve converted it into a living space shows my creativity and flexibility, Gus. My ‘career’ is catching murderers and thieves and assorted other bad guys and girls and putting them in prison, which is a sexy, sexy career. And I’ve been collecting those pennies in Mr. Piggington since I was eight, and you know it! We’ll see in forty years which one of us made the better financial decisions.”

“Your most recent financial decision was using MY credit card to pay for this vacation!”

“Exactly,” Shawn said, “and I saved a lot of my own money by doing that.”

Unswayed by this impeccable logic, Gus just glared at him. “You’re paying me back half of whatever we spend here, Shawn.”

“Sure. Monopoly money is legal tender, right?”

Gus didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. “So, what do you want to do for our last night here? We haven’t been to the science museum yet. Or, I saw in the paper this morning that there’s an art exhibit –”

“I’ve had enough art and museums for the week,” Shawn interrupted. “I spotted an arcade when I was walking around with Jules today. They have skeeball!”

“What about table hockey?”

“Of course!”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner? Let’s go.”

It wasn’t until later, when Shawn was stretched out in the chair in the hotel room, trying to sleep, (having been kicked out of the bed by Gus, who said that if he was paying for it, he was going to be the only one to enjoy it) that he had time to think about Lassiter again. Or Jerky Jerkface as Shawn preferred to think of him at the moment.

Who did Lassie think he was, trying to restrict his flirting right on the heels of saying that he wasn’t interested in doing the horizontal tango with him again? He hadn’t actually been planning on doing anything with Despereaux, particularly not with Gus around, but it was fun to fool around a little, and it didn’t hurt anyone.

Except…Lassie had looked kind of hurt. Which, on him, translated into pissed off. Shawn sat bolt upright at the realization. He couldn’t believe how stupid he was; he was going to blame it on the lust-addled hormones that seemed to overtake him when he was around Lassie lately.

Lassie was jealous.

It was why he had been angry about the flirting, and now that Shawn thought about it, it was why he had brought up Shawn having a girlfriend as a reason that he wouldn’t sleep with Shawn again. It was so obvious that he was embarrassed that he hadn’t picked up on it sooner.

If Lassiter was jealous, it must mean that he still wanted Shawn.

Shawn felt a thrill run through him at this realization, which he tried to quash by reminding himself that he had rules. Rules that he had already broken for Lassie, sure, but that was supposed to have been an exception, a time out from reality, not a complete shattering of the status quo.

From the bed, Shawn heard Gus snort in his sleep and roll over. The rules were there for a reason, he reminded himself, no matter how much his natural instinct was to rebel against them. Gus would be so hurt if he found out that Shawn had been keeping a secret of this magnitude, and that wasn't even taking into account what Henry's reaction would be.

Besides, this thing with Lassie, it was just a crush that had gotten out of control. Yeah, okay, they were clearly compatible when it came to sex. So what? Lassiter had made it clear that they were done, and Shawn was fine with that. More than fine. He totally and completely agreed that it was the right thing to do.

Lassie being jealous, Shawn wanting to jump him every time they were in the same room...those were just side effects of the night they had spent together. Those feelings would fade, and things would go back to normal.

At least, that's what Shawn hoped would happen.


	8. Chapter 8

Sleeping with Shawn Spencer had been a colossal mistake, Lassiter acknowledged to himself on the flight back to Santa Barbara. He should have realized that the relationship that the two of them shared was complicated enough without throwing sex into the mix. Well, it was impossible to change the past; all he could do was resolve to move on and act as professionally as possible around Spencer, a task that was difficult even without the issue of sexual tension.

Still, he liked to think that he was a man who learned from his mistakes, and this encounter with Spencer had been educational. He thought that it might be time for him to acknowledge that he was interested in pursuing something with another man. Before Spencer, his experience had been limited to a few clumsy, fumbling experiences in college, and a couple of drunken blow jobs in the months after Victoria had left him. The sex with Shawn had felt like a revelation; it only stood to reason that if he did it with someone who didn't irritate the crap out of him it might be even better, as difficult as that was to imagine.

Until he figured all of this out, he needed to find distractions. The night after he got back from Canada, he started trying to fill up his schedule. Golf with an attorney from the DA's office on Saturday morning, a meeting of the local chapter of the NRA on Wednesday night, a gathering of the Historical Society on Sunday.

It was the Historical Society meeting that proved to be the most interesting, due mainly to the guest speaker, a professor from the local college named Jonathan Striker. He had warm brown eyes and a nice smile and he spoke passionately and fluently about the history of Santa Barbara, and his smile seemed somehow to grow even warmer and more genuine when he looked at Lassiter.

After the lecture, Lassiter helped himself to the sugar cookies and punch provided by one of the grandmotherly types in the society and was about to leave when he felt a light touch on his arm.

"Excuse me, I don't think we've met. Jonathan Striker."

"Carlton Lassiter," he replied, shaking the other man's hand. "I enjoyed the lecture. You really know your stuff."

"I don't think I've seen you at one of these meetings before," Jonathan said. "I'm sure I would have noticed you."

"I don't get to come as often as I'd like," Lassiter explained. "Work keeps me pretty busy."

"Oh? What do you do?"

"I'm the Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department," he said, and Jonathan's eyebrows lifted in interest.

"Really? I imagine that's fascinating work. Hey, would you be interested in grabbing a coffee with me sometime? I don't often get to meet fellow history enthusiasts."

It was on the tip of Lassiter's tongue to point out that they were in a room full of history enthusiasts, but he realized with a sudden jolt that he was being asked out on a date. He blinked in surprise and must have taken too long to respond, because Jonathan took a step back and quickly said "Don't worry about it, I understand if you don't have time..."

"No!" Lassiter protested, "I mean, yes, coffee would be nice sometime. Here," he pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it over, "call me this week and we'll set something up."

"Great!" Jonathan said enthusiastically, and he was about to say more, but a blue-haired octogenarian interrupted them to tell Jonathan about her great-grandfather's role in the Union army, and he allowed himself to be pulled away after promising Lassiter that he would call soon.

Which was how Lassiter found himself a few days later sitting at a table in an upscale, trendy coffee bar listening to Jonathan talk about a recent trip he had taken to Gettysburg. Maybe this could work. Sure, he didn't feel any kind of overwhelming sexual attraction, but that sort of thing came with time, didn't it? Yes, he had been attracted to Victoria from the day he met her, but he had been younger and less cautious with his emotions back then.

With Shawn there hadn't been an immediate attraction. Well...maybe that wasn't entirely true. From the first time he had pushed Shawn against a police car he had known there was a spark between them, one that had been ignited through equal parts fury and astonishment as Shawn solved the McCallum case in front of everybody. But that was an unusual circumstance, to say the least. He couldn't expect that kind of instant attraction for a man he was having an overpriced coffee drink with.

"I apologize, I'm monopolizing the conversation," Jonathan said with a smile. "Sometimes I can't help myself when I find a captive audience."

"It's a subject that I never tire of," Lassiter said honestly, though he couldn't remember a thing that Jonathan had just said.

"So, you said before that you're a cop?"

"Head Detective," Lassiter corrected automatically.

"That must be an exciting job."

Lassiter shrugged a little uncomfortably. "Sometimes. Mostly it's just a very demanding one."

"It's hot," Jonathan said frankly, and Lassiter blinked at him in surprise.

"It's really not. It means working a lot of late nights and weekends, and it's not a job I can always leave behind at the end of the day. It used to drive my wife crazy that I was always thinking about cases."

Jonathan smiled slightly. "I'm guessing that the fact that you're here on a date with me means that work wasn't the only problem with your marriage."

Lassiter opened his mouth to shoot down any discussion of his marriage, when, to his horror, he heard a familiar voice.

“No Gus, that can’t be right! You’re confused.”

“I’m not confused, Shawn! Tomatoes are a fruit.”

“Tomatoes, Gus, like you have on a delicious BLT. I don’t know what you’re thinking of. Pomegranates, maybe? Are you thinking of pomegranates, Gus? Or kiwis?”

“I’m thinking of tomatoes! Biologically speaking, they are a fruit.”

“That can’t be right, because I don’t want to have a tomato flavored smoothie."

Please don't see me, Lassiter thought uselessly. He should have known better than to agree to a date in a frou frou little coffee bar, the likes of which he never normally patronized; it was exactly the kind of place Spencer and Guster would stop at for a snack.

"Lassie! What are you doing here? Didn't you once say that you would rather go to a Michael Moore film festival than be caught dead in a place like this?"

"Spencer, I'm busy," he said through gritted teeth. "Go away."

As expected, Shawn ignored him.

"Hi," he said, sticking his hand out for Jonathan to shake, "I'm Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department, and this is my partner, Jellyfish Boom Boom Watson."

Looking bemused, Jonathan shook his hand and introduced himself.

"So, how do you know our esteemed head detective?" Shawn asked, watching Lassiter with narrowed eyes.

"None of your business," Lassiter started to say, but Shawn continued as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"Gun club? Nah. What do you think, Jellyfish?"

"Maybe he's a subscriber to Detective Lassiter's squirrel hater's newsletter," Gus suggested.

Shawn tilted his head thoughtfully. "I don't think so. Wait! I'm seeing...chalkboards! Desks! Dunce caps! Me, asleep in the last row! You shouldn't take that personally, by the way. I do my best learning while I'm asleep. Are you a teacher, Mr. Striker?"

"I teach American history at Santa Barbara Community College," Jonathan confirmed. "That was amazing! How did you know that?"

"Weren't you listening when I introduced myself? I AM psychic," Shawn replied. "So, do you know Lassie through the reenactments? Did he tell you about how I caught a murderer at one?"

"Nooo," Jonathan said, looking confused.

"Spencer. Leave. Now." Lassiter snapped.

"Shawn, I don't think we're wanted here," Gus said, sounding shocked.

"No, don't be silly. Of course we're wanted. We're the only rays of sunshine in Lassie's otherwise cloudy life, why wouldn't he want...why..." Shawn trailed off as realization finally struck about what it was that he was interrupting. Grabbing Lassiter by the arm, he pulled him to his feet, saying "Gus, why don't you tell Jonathan about that jellybean eating contest you won in the third grade? I'm having a vision that I have to share with Lassie right now, outside."

Lassiter followed without complaint, thinking that if he went along with Shawn now, maybe he could get rid of him.

Once they were outside, and out of sight of the table Jonathan and Gus were at, Shawn turned on him.

"What the hell are you doing? Is that...are you on a date with that guy?"

"What's it to you if I am?" Lassiter countered. "Last I checked, you don't get a say in my personal life, Spencer."

"But Lassie, anyone could see you and figure it out. Hell, Gus is probably figuring it out right now."

"So?"

Shawn stared at him, flabbergasted. "But...you're a cop! You're all conservative and buttoned-up and repressed! How can you be okay with people knowing that you're dating a guy?"

"That's your issue, not mine Spencer. I don't flaunt my private life, but I'm not ashamed of it either.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Shawn stuttered, “I’m just…what if someone you work with sees you? What if Dobson were to walk in right now?”

“He would probably think that I’m having a cup of coffee with a friend, which is true. It’s not like we’re groping each other in public.”

“There…there’s groping?”

It was rather nice, Lassiter thought, to leave Shawn speechless for once, so instead of saying anything comforting about how it was only a first date and he doubted there would be any groping, he just smirked.

“I want to get back to my date now, and you're going to get Guster and leave." He turned and went back into the cafe, Shawn following closely behind him, his agitation so apparent that it was almost palpable.

"Sorry about that," he apologized to Jonathan as he sat back down.

"It was nice to meet you," Gus said to Jonathan. "Come on Shawn, I still want something to drink."

"Okay," Shawn said distractedly, and for a brief moment Lassiter thought the entire awkward episode was finally at an end, until suddenly Shawn clutched his head and moaned loudly, drawing the attention of the people at the surrounding tables.

"Oh, crap," Lassiter muttered.

"What's going on?" Jonathan asked, alarmed. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"He's having a vision," Lassiter said, his voice laden with sarcasm.

"You!" Shawn exclaimed, pointing at Jonathan, "I see you searching, searching, searching the world for the place you belong! I see...the Liberty Bell! Disney World! That mountain with the faces carved into it!"

"Mount Rushmore," Gus supplied helpfully.

"I'm sensing that you will find all of the happiness and success you crave in Boston, Jonathan Striker! I'm definitely sensing that a move to Boston as soon as possible would be in your best interest."

"Uh, Shawn, none of those places that you named are in Boston," Gus pointed out.

"I can't help how the spirits reveal themselves to me, you know that Gus."

"Well, if the spirits are done, we'll be leaving now," Gus said, taking Shawn by the sleeve and pulling him away from the table.

"What the hell was that?" Jonathan asked as he watched them leave.

"Don't worry about it," Lassiter sighed.

"Seriously, that was crazy. Is he really psychic?"

"Please tell me that you don't believe in crap like that."

"Not usually," Jonathan admitted, "but it was impressive how he knew I was a teacher."

"Let's not waste any more time on him," Lassiter said wearily.

"Oh," Jonathan said knowingly. "I get it. He's your ex."

"No! God, no. We've never dated."

"But he would like to."

"No. No. He just enjoys embarrassing me in public." Desperately, Lassiter cast about for an appropriate first date topic, anything to change the subject. "So, tell me more about yourself. What are your feelings on the second amendment?"

Gus waited until they were in the Blueberry before melting down. "Shawn, that was a date! Lassie was on a date with that guy! Did you know that he was gay?"

"Don't be Keanu Reeves's accent in Dracula, Gus. Of course I knew. However, I think the correct term is 'bicuriously slutty', not gay." He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, knowing he sounded bitter.

"I don't think we have enough evidence to call him slutty," Gus said, frowning, "unless you know something that I don't."

"No," Shawn lied. "You know everything that I do. Hey, you pulled me out of there before I could get anything to eat, and I'm still hungry. Let's go to Dunkin Donuts."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It happened so fast! You, like, yanked me out of there. You knew I wanted a muffin, dude. But now I want donuts."

"No, Shawn," Gus said, exasperated, "I mean about Lassiter. Why didn't you tell me he was gay, or bi, or whatever?"

"I didn't think it mattered," Shawn said, crossing his arms across his chest and looking out the window. "He's still the same old Lassie, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," Gus said. "Maybe if he gets laid, he'll chill out a little."

Shawn had no reply for that, as he was suddenly assaulted by an image of Lassiter pinning Jonathan to his mattress, fucking him slowly the way he had Shawn. Was this how Lassie had felt when he had heard that Shawn was dating Abigail? Or when he saw him flirting with Despereaux? Because it sucked. It really, really sucked.

Gus, oblivious to Shawn's distress, did not start the car and point it towards Dunkin Donuts and the sugar rush Shawn so desperately needed, but instead kept talking. "So, what did you take him outside to talk about? And what was all that stuff about Boston?"

"I just don't trust that guy. I mean, Jonathan Striker? What comic book did he get that name out of? I don't want Lassie to have his heart broken by some tweed wearing supervillain."

Gus snorted and, much to Shawn's relief, finally started the car. "He wasn't wearing tweed, Shawn. And since when do you care about Lassie's heart?"

"He's a professor, you know he has to have a closet full of those tweed jackets with the little elbow patches. And as for Lassie, what do you think having his heart broken would do for his crankiness levels? I'm looking out for all of us, Gus."

"Good point," Gus agreed, and Shawn started a purposely rambling monologue about whether he should have a banana cream donut or a lemon cream donut and resolutely attempted not to think about Lassiter and his history professor hottie.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Includes references to the events of the episode "He Dead", as well as references to "Murder by Something Something".

Shawn tried to cover his yawn so that his dad wouldn’t see or hear it and stared blearily at the wall he was painting. He hadn’t gotten much sleep over the last couple of days, as he had been busy staking out one Professor Jonathan Striker. It was for Lassie’s own good, he reasoned; Lassie was susceptible to flattery, and it wouldn’t do to have him fall for some sort of sleazy academic lothario who had complimented his eyes or his shoulders or his Union army costume.

And while Shawn could hardly fault Professor Stupidhead for falling for Lassiter’s manly sternum bush or commanding cop voice or encyclopedic knowledge of Clint Eastwood movies, that didn’t mean he should step aside and let him ruin Lassiter’s life. Because that was totally going to happen. Shawn was certain that he was not at all irrational about this.

So far, all he’d found out was that Striker was a moderately well-liked professor on the local campus. Tough but fair, blah blah blah, and to Shawn’s disappointment, he apparently didn’t seduce co-eds or take bribes for grades, discoveries which frankly seemed highly unlikely. What kind of college professor was he? It was at times like this that he wondered if his lack of real world experience in college might be impairing his judgment, since most of his knowledge of professors came from episodes set during the college years of _90210_ and _One Tree Hill_.

After his research turned up nothing, he had followed Professor Stinkybreath home, a modest two-story in a middle class cul-de-sac. It seemed like a lot of house for one person, but Shawn could see no evidence that he had a secret spouse, or secret children, or even a secret dog. After talking to the neighbors (introducing himself as Oscar O. Otterbaron, part of a committee that was giving Striker a Good Citizenship award), he learned that his quarry was quiet, polite, mowed his grass in a timely manner, and mostly kept to himself.

So, obviously, he was a serial killer, Shawn decided. He checked the house out for any unlocked windows or doors, so that he could rescue whatever victims Striker was clearly keeping in his basement, but found no easy way in, and spying a sticker from a security company in the window made him hesitate to break in.

That meant that his next step needed to be to follow the professor and Lassiter on their second date, to the historical society museum, a choice Shawn heartily approved of: no one was getting laid after spending the afternoon reading informational plaques and looking at dusty old antiques.

Still, they stood worryingly close to one another, and more than once Lassiter laughed at something Professor Suckington said. Shawn resented every one of those laughs; usually it was like pulling teeth to get Lassie to acknowledge a joke.

After the museum, he watched Lassiter and Striker eat dinner, hoping a baseball cap and his sunglasses were enough of a disguise. Fortunately, the two men were seated at the patio, so Shawn was easily able to keep an eye on them while sitting at a bus stop across the street. He had been frowning over how Lassiter was allowing Jonathan to hand him a roll from the bread basket - wasn't Lassie at all worried about poison? Or at least germs? - when his phone rang, and he automatically answered it.

"Shawn! Where are you?" Gus sounded agitated. Shawn had a bad feeling about this. "I'm, uh...where are you?" he asked, defensively.

"I'm at the office. You know, where we agreed to meet before going to the movies? I want popcorn, Shawn. AND raisinets. I planned my whole day around this, and unless you get here in the next three minutes, we're going to miss the trailers, so you better be on your way."

"Uh," Shawn said, "I'm sorry Gus, I forgot about the movie. I'm, uh, following a suspect."

In the restaurant across the street, Jonathan leaned forward, speaking animatedly, and laid a hand on Lassiter's arm. Shawn could feel his eyes narrowing in fury.

"A suspect?" Gus yelled, and Shawn pulled the phone away from his ear, wincing. "Did you take a case without me?"

"No!" Shawn said hurriedly. "I mean...yes. Wait, no! It's not a case. It's just a favor for a friend."

"What friend?" Gus asked suspiciously.

The waiter brought the check, and Lassiter and Jonathan both reached for it, Lassiter ultimately winning. Good, Shawn thought, Lassie wouldn't be expected to put out because Professor Shithead bought him dinner.

"Shawn?" Gus asked, "what friend?"

"You don't know him," Shawn said.

"Who do you know that I don't know?"

Having paid, Lassiter and Jonathan were headed for the door. Shawn was going to have to get on his bike if he wanted to continue to follow them.

"I'm sorry buddy," he said to Gus, "I think my battery is about to die. I'll call you la--" he hung up in mid-word, to make his dead battery story more believable, not that Gus would actually believe it. After he was done stalking Lassiter for the night, he was going to have to come up with a good cover story for Gus.

To his horror, when Lassiter drove Striker home, Striker leaned across the front seat and kissed Lassie, making Shawn’s stomach twist into knots. Afterwards, Striker said something, and Lassiter shook his head in response, and some of Shawn’s tension eased a little as Striker walked to his front door alone and Lassiter drove away.

Shawn would not, after all, want Lassiter to go into what was obviously a crazed serial killer’s den without proper warning.

He should have been checking up on them again today, but instead he was at his dad’s house, painting. Shawn wasn't certain how Henry had convinced him to come over to the house and help him paint the kitchen; it probably had something to do with the way Henry had bailed him and Gus out of a Canadian jail, and therefore Shawn owed him a favor, but he was hazy on when he had agreed to spend his Saturday afternoon trapped in one room with his father, and now he was paying the price: slow death by a thousand tiny criticisms.

It had started the minute he had walked in the door. "Is that a new shirt, Shawn? Why would you wear a new shirt to paint in?" (it wasn't a new shirt, merely a clean one), and since then he had been chided for the way held a paintbrush, the way he stood on a ladder, how he had positioned the dropcloth, and a dozen other things that he had already forgotten.

He wondered if it was possible to actually die from too much criticism. He pictured the headline in the newspaper: _"Local Psychic Detective Dies After Prolonged Exposure to Nagging"_. The accompanying story would read _"Best friend Bruton Gaster was unavailable for comment, as he was crying too hard to speak, but grieving father Henry Spencer told reporters "Trust Shawn to pick the stupidest way to die possible". Head Detective Carlton Lassiter said that no charges were being filed, as "the victim had it coming". When asked if he had any comment about Mr. Spencer, who solved dozens of cases for the SBPD, Detective Lassiter replied that he was too busy making out with Professor Sexypants to waste any more time on "that fraud Spencer"_.

"Shawn!" Henry barked, "what are you thinking about? You've been painting that same spot for the past five minutes!"

"Just picturing my obituary," Shawn said glumly.

"What? What's going on with you today, kid? You seem down."

"Nothing's going on," Shawn said. "I guess I'm a little bored because Gus and I haven't had a case since Canada."

"You got into enough trouble in Canada to last you for a month," Henry sniffed.

"Thanks, dad, you always know just what to say."

"So what have you been up to? Are you still seeing that girl, the one you knew from high school?"

"Nah, that didn't work out."

"I should have known," Henry said. "You can't stick with anything, even a pretty girl."

"Actually, she dumped me, but I appreciate your concern," Shawn sniped.

There was a moment of silence before Henry said "I'm sorry, kid. I know you really liked her."

Maybe it was the note of honest concern in Henry's voice, but Shawn found himself doing the thing he had promised himself he would never, ever do (except for in emergencies): asking for his dad's advice about something other than a case.

"It's okay. She was right, it wasn't going to work. Hey, Dad, what do you do when you…” he hesitated, not sure how to phrase his question, “when you can’t stop thinking about someone, but you know it wouldn’t work out?”

“Why wouldn’t it work out?” Henry asked.

“Lots of reasons,” Shawn said evasively. “Like, for example, right now this person is seeing someone else.”

"Oh," Henry said, pleased, "did you finally find someone that you can't charm into sleeping with you? Is that why this girl is so fascinating to you?"

"No," Shawn huffed, annoyed, "If you must know, we've already slept together."

"And you're still interested?" Henry asked, raising an eyebrow. "She must be quite a catch."

"It's good to know what your opinion of me is. Wait, no, I mean the opposite of that. Just forget I brought it up, okay?"

"Calm down Shawn, I was just teasing you. So, what's the problem? Is she playing hard to get or is she genuinely more interested in the guy she’s dating?"

Shawn frowned at the wall he was painting, unsure of how to answer. "I don't think this person is into game playing," he said finally.

"Well," Henry said, "maybe that's your problem. Maybe she doesn't see you as being serious enough for her."

Shawn considered this. "Maybe," he agreed reluctantly. "This is someone who spends too much time being serious."

“Or,” Henry continued, “maybe she likes this other guy more than she likes you.”

“No,” Shawn said automatically, “it can’t be that. I mean, yeah, they have some things in common,” he said, thinking about their shared interest in history, “but we have things in common too. Better things. Important things!” After all, he and Lassie solved crime together! They put bad guys in prison together! Sure, maybe Lassiter didn’t always necessarily think of that as something they did “together”, since he tried more often than not to keep Shawn away from cases, but it still counted as a shared interest. A sexy, sexy shared interest. Way sexier than things that happened hundreds of years ago.

"Don't think I didn't notice how you avoided using any names or pronouns," Henry said. "Are you finally going to make an honest man of Gus?"

Shawn froze, replaying his dad's words in his head. He didn't even realize he had dropped his paintbrush until Henry yelled "Shawn, you're making a mess!" He ignored that, crossing his arms tightly around his chest as he turned to face his dad.

"What did you mean by that?" he demanded. "About me and Gus?"

Henry snorted. "Please Shawn, the two of you have been practically married since you were eight years old. Do you really think I would be shocked if you made it official?"

Shawn was so flummoxed that he didn't even know where to start. "Gus isn't...I mean, I'm not..."

"Oh, come on, kid. When you were sixteen you had a poster of Claudia Schiffer on one wall and a poster of Val Kilmer on the other wall, and it was a toss-up which one of them I caught you staring at more."

"Wait," Shawn said weakly, "you mean you've always..." he couldn't finish, the very idea that his most closely guarded secret had never been a secret from his dad leaving him too stunned to speak.

"Known that you were interested in guys?" Henry asked with a grimace. "Of course I have. When are you going to learn that you can't keep anything from me?"

"Never, probably," Shawn said faintly, then latched onto an emotion that he was more accustomed to feeling when dealing with Henry. "Don't pretend that you're okay with this. I saw the expression on your face just now."

"At least I'm trying," Henry snapped. "It's not like you've ever shared this part of your life with me."

"Fair enough," Shawn agreed cautiously. "Look, Dad, you can't say anything about this in front of Gus. He doesn't know."

Finally, he had said something that surprised Henry. "What? What are you talking about? I assumed you and Gus...he's the only person you've ever trusted."

Trying to sound as light as possible, Shawn said "Gus is straighter than uncooked spaghetti. And even if he wasn't, don't you think he could do better than me?"

"So, this is about some other guy? And Gus doesn't know anything about it?"

"Yep," Shawn confirmed, turning away so that Henry wouldn't be able to read anything in his expression.

"Shawn," Henry started to say gently, but Shawn interrupted him.

"I think that's all the father-son bonding I can handle for one day. I'm gonna take off." He paused at the door, chancing a glance over his shoulder to see Henry watching him with a worried expression. "Thanks, Dad," he said softly, and left before Henry could say anything in response. Outside, he paused at his bike, feeling like he had been sucker-punched. Twenty years of keeping a secret from his dad that had never been a secret at all. Jesus.

**

Lassiter eyed the site of the plane crash with a sense of irritation. Of course Spencer and Guster had found the downed plane first. Not only that, but they claimed that Warren Clayton had still been alive when they found him, and that he had indicated that his death had been a murder.

Why couldn't he ever be the one to stumble over a dying billionaire and hear his last words? He was Head Detective, for god's sake.

He was further annoyed when later, at the station, Shawn finagled his way into working for the widow. So annoyed, in fact, that he couldn't stop talking about it that night on his date with Jonathan.

They were eating dinner at the Italian restaurant that O'Hara liked so much, Mario's. Lassiter had only been twenty minutes late -- not bad in his line of work -- but Jonathan had seemed slightly annoyed by the tardiness, though it had disappeared as Lassiter explained that he was investigating the Clayton plane crash, which had been all over the news for the better part of the day.

"He charms his way into anything he wants! He took what should be a legitimate police investigation and turned it into an opportunity to fraternize with the Clayton family."

Jonathan looked confused. "If he's that much of an opportunist, then why is he allowed to interfere in police work at all?"

"He solves cases," Lassiter admitted grudgingly. "He'll probably figure out what caused Clayton's plane to crash before the first course is served and have his picture in the paper in the morning."

"He really gets under your skin," Jonathan observed, and Lassiter frowned at his chicken marsala.

"Sorry, it's hard to stop thinking about work sometimes." Lassiter said, thinking about how, in the last year of their marriage, Victoria had grown increasingly weary of hearing him always talk about work.

 

"No," Jonathan said, "I think your work is fascinating. But you need to relax more. Take a night off from the job. How about tomorrow night, you come over to my place for dinner?" He smiled warmly at Lassiter. "Maybe we could find a way to relieve some of your stress."

Lassiter hastily closed his mouth, which had dropped open during this invitation. "I...uh...sure. That would be nice," he said feebly, ignoring the part of his brain that was screaming out 'SEX! He's inviting you over for SEX!'

"I can't make any promises, though," he added quickly. "I might get tied up at work tomorrow night. It all depends on what happens with this case."

"That's fine," Jonathan assured him, "We'll play it by ear."

Later, in the semi-dark parking lot of the restaurant, Lassiter hesitantly kissed Jonathan goodnight, and tried to convince himself that he wanted more. Told himself that tomorrow night at this time, they could be...well. Getting to know one another even better. He was certain that when the time came, he would be more excited about it. Things seemed to be going better with Jonathan than they had with any woman he had dated in the past few years, he reminded himself. This had been a good idea. A great idea, even. And if he felt apprehensive or uncertain, well, that was natural.

He was gratified the next day to realize that Spencer had been fired by Warren Clayton's widow after only one night of work, and that he was trying to ingratiate himself back into the Chief's good graces by complimenting her...teeth. Huh.

However, it was probably a mistake to call Spencer an "obnoxious little twerp" in front of Chief Vick, because in retaliation Shawn made a reference to "backbiting...and frontbiting", with a quick leer in Lassiter's direction, and he felt himself flush all over at the memory of biting and kissing his way down Shawn's chest.

After the meeting in the Chief's office was concluded, Lassiter had thought Spencer would be leaving, to pursue his investigation, or the spirits, or possibly a frappucino, but instead Shawn followed him, dropping into a chair next to Lassiter's desk and pulling out his phone.

"What the hell are you doing, Spencer?" Lassiter asked wearily.

"Texting Gus to tell him to pick me up."

"Well, you can't stay there. Go outside and wait for him."

"No can do, Lassie. I might freckle if I sit out in the sun!" Shawn protested, not moving from his seat.

Lassiter sighed but didn't press the issue; with Shawn, it was always a matter of knowing when to pick his battles. He pulled up his notes on the Warren case on his computer and started adding the information he had received that morning.

"Where's Jules?"

"She had to testify in a court case this morning," he replied, not looking up.

"So, how are things going with your supervillain boyfriend?"

"I'm not going to discuss my personal life with you, Spencer. And he's not a supervillain."

"That's what they all say. Don't come crying to me when he tries to destroy the world."

Lassiter didn't reply, refusing to engage Shawn on the subject of Jonathan.

"So, you really think it was just an accident?" Shawn asked, nodding to the file in front of Lassiter.

"The evidence indicates that it was."

"Pffft. Evidence, shmevidence. Warren Clayton told me he had been murdered. His dying words were to find his killer!"

"He had lost a lot of blood and he was in shock. It's possible he didn't know what he was saying. Or, maybe he did think that someone else was responsible for the crash, but that doesn't mean he was right."

"Hey Lassie, what do you think your last words will be?"

"Telling O'Hara to avenge my death," Lassiter replied immediately. "What about you?"

"I'm going to make Gus promise to carry my ashes around with him everywhere he goes for the rest of his life."

"Everywhere?"

"Everywhere."

Lassiter considered this for a moment, then went back to typing his notes. Spencer, for once, was quiet, tapping out something on his phone.

“Do you ever think about Claire?” Shawn asked abruptly, sounding deceptively casual."All this talking about last words, it makes me think of her and how she she didn't get the chance for...anyway, do you ever think about her?" He didn’t look up at Lassiter, just continued to play with his phone.

“Sometimes,” Lassiter said, surprised that Shawn had even brought it up. “My biggest regret about that night is that I couldn’t figure out a way to save her.”

“I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head,” Shawn said. “If we had stopped him sooner, before he started down the stairs with her…”

“I know,” Lassiter said. “I’ve thought about it too. It was my fault. I should have taken my chances while he was still close enough to shoot.”

Shawn did look up at him now. “Lassie, there was nothing you could have done. The way he was holding Claire, there was no way to make the shot, and he was watching you like a hawk in case you tried something. I’m the one who should have tried, I could have jumped him while his attention was focused on you.”

Lassiter shook his head. “You can’t think like that, Spencer. He had a gun to her head. There was no good opportunity.”

“But if –”

Unexpectedly, Lassiter reached over and put a hand on his knee. “It all happened too fast, Shawn. You couldn’t have saved her.”

Feeling a warm flush of pleasure go through him at Lassiter’s touch, Shawn willed himself to sit perfectly still and not ruin the moment, but his resolved crumbled at the sound of Gus’s voice.

“Shawn, are you ready to go? I need to hit a few more stops on my route this afternoon.”

Lassiter hastily removed his hand as Gus came up to the desk, and Shawn stood up.

“Didn’t you just go on your route last week, Gus? Shouldn’t you give them a chance to miss you?” he asked, proud of the fact that his voice didn’t betray how keyed up he felt from Lassie’s touch.

“You do understand how having a job works, right Shawn?’ Gus asked rhetorically.

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” Lassiter muttered under his breath.

“Fine,” Shawn huffed in annoyance. “But we have some detective work to do before you go. Psychic detective work," he added, glancing over at Lassiter.

"I assume that means you'll spend the afternoon playing video games, with a time-out for watching some terrible eighties movie," Lassiter said.

"It's a process," Shawn said haughtily.

"A delicate process," Gus added. "We'll also need Skittles."

"Agreed. Bye, Lassie!” Shawn said as he started to follow Gus out of the station. He paused after he had taken a couple of steps and turned around, opening his mouth like he was going to say something else, then closing it again as he looked at Lassiter with a puzzled expression, like he couldn’t figure out what he was doing. Lassiter sympathized; he didn’t know what they were doing either.

“Shawn!”

“Coming Gus!” Shawn called, and fled.

Hours later, Lassiter was on his way to Jonathan's house, feeling distinctly uneasy. He didn't like doing things by half measures; he had jumped feet first into dating again - dating a man, no less - and he would be disappointed in himself if he didn't at least make an effort to see it through. How could he know if it would or wouldn't work with Jonathan if he didn't at least try?

But. At the same time. He had felt more of a sexual charge that afternoon simply from touching Shawn's leg in the middle of the crowded police station than he had kissing Jonathan in a dark parking lot the night before. He still wasn't certain exactly what had compelled him to touch Shawn like that, except that he had looked uncharacteristically guilty over the memory of Claire's death. He had wanted nothing more in that moment but to wipe that anxious, unhappy expression off Shawn's face. It had worked, too: Shawn's expression had gone from sadness to shock to a kind of focused intensity that made Lassiter's toes curl.

He was stopped at a traffic light when his phone rang. It was Guster on the other end, telling him that he and Shawn had a suspect in the Clayton case, and that they needed Lassiter and O'Hara to meet them at a local hotel to question him. He told Guster he would be there shortly, then called Jonathan to cancel their plans for the evening.

"Spencer again," Jonathan said, when Lassiter explained the situation, and even over the phone his irritation was clear.

"Yeah," Lassiter said shortly. "Look, I've got to go. I need to get there before Spencer and Guster get into trouble." He hung up quickly, before Jonathan could say anything else.

Yeah, this wasn't going to work.


	10. Chapter 10

"I'm sorry," Lassiter said awkwardly, "but I don't think this is going to work out. My job..."

It was the day after the Clayton case had been wrapped up, and Lassiter had asked Jonathan to meet him for coffee, knowing that it was time to end his latest ill-advised attempt at a relationship.

"Is this because I was kind of an ass when you called to cancel earlier?" Jonathan asked sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I really do understand that your work requires you to be on call all the time. At the college, I'm known as the mean professor who requires punctuality, and sometimes that bleeds over into my personal life without me meaning for it too."

"No," Lassiter said, "it's not really about that. I just realized that I'm not in a place right now where I'm ready to start a relationship." He extended his hand with the intention of shaking Jonathan's hand, wishing him luck, and leaving before this became any more uncomfortable than it already was, but Jonathan responded by crossing his arms and regarding him curiously.

"Is this about your little psychic friend?"

"He's not psychic. And he's not exactly my friend. Why would you ask that? Spencer has nothing to do with this."

"Right," Jonathan said doubtfully.

"Look," Lassiter said irritably, "we've barely been on three dates. It's just not going to work, okay? I don't owe you any explanations."

Jonathan laughed. "The fact that you're so annoyed over me asking about him answers all my questions. You're right, you don't owe me anything. You're a good guy, Carlton. I hope you figure things out with Mr. Spencer soon."

"There's nothing to figure out," Lassiter grumbled, and Jonathan shook his head in amusement.

"If you say so. If you change your mind, give me a call. I'd still be happy to help you relieve some of that tension," he said with a wink as he stood to leave, and was rewarded with Carlton's flustered look.

Outside, Jonathan started towards his car only to nearly run into someone wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.

"Sorry," he started to apologize, then stopped as he realized who he had nearly run into. "Mr. Spencer?"

"Ahh," Shawn said, scrambling for words, "Doctor Spinderella, how nice to see you again."

"It's Professor Striker," Jonathan corrected. "Are you...were you following me and Carlton?"

"Shyeah, as if that wouldn't be a total yawn," Shawn said cagily, wondering if it would be suspicious if he were to turn and run the other way before Jonathan asked him anything else, or, worse, before Lassiter came out and saw him.

"Well," Jonathan said, "you might be interested to know that Carlton just ended things between us, so he's all yours."

"All mine? Right, like I would want...I mean, he doesn't match anything I have in my apartment. You're crazy if you think I would want anything to do with Lassie. He's all grumpy and...tall...and stuff."

"I'm beginning to think that you two deserve each other," Jonathan said. "Good luck with that."

With a little wave, he got into his car and left. Shawn glanced inside the cafe long enough to see Lassie tossing his coffee cup into the trash and coming towards the door, and made a hasty departure before he could be caught.  
**

When Lassiter got the call from Hank about the troubles at Old Sonora, his first instinct was to investigate the case himself, but he was stymied by the fact that he had no jurisdiction outside of Santa Barbara. For the first time, he could see the advantage that Spencer and Guster had in working outside the system.

Once he realized that he wasn't going to be able to work on the case himself, there was really no question that he would call in Psych. While he would rather cut his tongue out than admit it, Shawn was the best detective he knew, and Hank deserved the best. Swallowing his pride, he called Spencer to ask for help.

"Lassie! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need for you to go somewhere with me tomorrow," Lassiter said without any preamble.

There was the tiniest pause before Shawn replied. "Sure! Should I bring the strawberry flavored lube, or do you have that covered?"

"That's not...I don't...bring Guster!"

"Aww, Lassie, I understand how you could be drawn to his chocolate velvety goodness, but as I've already explained, he wouldn't be interested. I, on the other hand..."

"Spencer!" he shouted in agitation, "just meet me at 9:00 in the morning at the Psych office. With Guster. I'll explain everything tomorrow."

"Okay," Shawn said, sounding amused. "You should know that tomorrow is usually my spa day, so you're obligated to give me a massage and a mani pedi to thank me for my time."

Lassiter scowled at the phone. "9:00. Don't be late," he said, and hung up.

It took Shawn and Gus a little longer to wrap up the case than Lassiter would have liked, but in the end they did solve it, just as they always did, and nearly got buried alive in a mine shaft for their trouble. Lassiter added it to his mental tally of Shawn's brushes with death over the past year. It was a disturbingly long list.

He should have felt happy once the case was over; Hank had not only been acquitted, he was going to be rich, Shawn and Gus were safe, and the perpetrator had been apprehended. But all he could think about was how he had arrested Hank, the man who had been like a father to him for most of his life.

After Hank went off to see about his lady, and Spencer and Guster disappeared to parts unknown, Lassiter ducked into the Old Sonora sheriff's office where he had spent so much time as a child, learning about the history of the West and hero-worshipping Hank. He sat down on the bunk in the tiny cell, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. He was going to miss this place. More than that, he was going to miss Hank. He couldn't imagine that their relationship would ever be the same after this.

When he heard the jingle of spurs as someone joined him in the cell, he assumed it was Hank, but when he opened his eyes Shawn was standing over him, once again wearing the sheriff's costume.

"Whatcha doin', Lassie?" he asked, concerned. He had been looking for Gus, but as he walked past the sheriff's office he had seen Lassiter sitting alone, looking far more depressed than he normally did after he discharged his weapon.

"Go away, Spencer," Lassiter said, but there was none of the usual heat behind it.

"What's wrong?" Shawn asked, confused. "You got to have a genuine Old West showdown - which you won, and which was also incredibly hot, by the way - and cleared Hank's good name in the process! Not bad for an afternoon's work."

Lassiter sighed. "For once, can't you just do what I ask and leave me in peace?"

"Nope," Shawn said cheerfully, leaning against the bars of the cell. "Not until you tell me what's bothering you."

"Right now, you're what's bothering me," Lassiter snapped, sounding aggrieved. "We're not buddies, so leave me the hell...why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit again?"

Offended, Shawn looked down at his supercool, not-at-all-ridiculous sheriff's costume. "My regular clothes were disgusting because of how Stinky Feet tried to bury me and Gus in the mine. I still had these clothes in Gus's car, so..."

"Bury you in a mine shaft," Lassiter muttered, shaking his head. "Good God."

Shawn sat down next to him on the bunk and gave him a friendly pat on the knee. "Come on pardner, tell Sheriff Shawn your troubles."

Lassiter didn't say anything, but Shawn could feel him practically vibrating with repressed unhappiness. Finally, he burst. "I arrested Hank! For murder! How could I do that, when he's been..." he trailed off miserably. "Forget it, Spencer. You wouldn't understand."

"Lassie, you were following the evidence," Shawn said gently. "There wasn't anything else you could do."

"I could have trusted him," Lassiter said bitterly.

"Hey, even I, with my super psychic senses, didn't know who the real culprit was until today."

"Would you have done it?" Lassiter asked. "Arrested him, I mean?"

"Uh, I'm not a cop Lassie, so it's not a decision I would ever have to make."

"No shit," Lassiter said, giving him an exasperated look. "Just answer the question."

Shawn shrugged. "I don't know, okay? The evidence compelled you to make the arrest, and if you hadn't done it, someone else would have. I knew he didn't do it, but I couldn't prove it yet. So I don't know what I would have done."

"How did you know that he didn't do it? And don't you dare try to tell me that you knew it psychically."

"Don't discount my amazing powers, Lassie! But if I were just an ordinary shmoe like you, I would say that it was instinct. Hank might kill to protect someone he loves, but he's not the type of guy to murder for money." He nudged Lassiter lightly with his shoulder. "You should trust your instincts more, instead of letting yourself be swayed by crap like circumstantial evidence."

Lassiter frowned, looking down at his hands. "I don't know if I trust my instincts at all anymore," he admitted, and Shawn sighed in frustration.

"You have perfectly good instincts, Lass. You just don't believe in them the way you should."

"Sometimes, instincts can be wrong," Lassiter argued. "Evidence is factual. Even in this case, the evidence eventually cleared Hank and pointed to the real culprit."

"Sure," Shawn agreed, "but if you had trusted your instincts over the evidence, you would never have believed for a second that Hank could have been guilty. Another example," Shawn continued blithely, "would be that if I only believed in evidence, I might think that you don't want to sleep with me again, but my instincts tell me differently."

Lassiter stood up, fast. "See, I would consider that to be proof that evidence is incontrovertible," he said stiffly.

Shawn followed him, noticing the way Lassiter's eyes moved over his Sheriff's uniform. Gotcha, he thought gleefully. He should have realized sooner that with his interest in historical reenactments and undercover work, Lassie would be a pushover for a little role-playing.

"Really?" Shawn asked, stepping closer, which forced Lassiter to retreat until his back was against the bars of the cell, "because my eighth sense is telling me that you think Sheriff Shawn is hot stuff."

Lassiter's brow furrowed in confusion. "Don't you mean your sixth sense?"

Shawn leaned forward, grabbing the bars on either side of Lassiter's head, effectively pinning him in. "I'm counting my fashion sense and my sense of direction."

"What the hell are you doing? I thought we had an agreement," Lassiter said, though Shawn couldn't help but notice that he made absolutely no move to get away.

"We're not in Santa Barbara right now," he pointed out. "And as Sheriff, it's my job to question a suspicious varmint in my jail," he said in his old-timey Western accent.

"Spencer..." Lassiter said threateningly, but Shawn didn't miss the way his eyes had dilated or the way he was breathing a little faster.

“I been noticing the way you’ve been watching me since you came into town,” Shawn said in his twangy accent. “It makes me think you’re up to no good. You understand that as Sheriff of this here town, I have to be clear about your intentions.”

"Shawn..." Lassiter tried, and this time his tone was slightly pleading. Shawn was pressed up against him now, and he could feel Lassiter getting hard.

"Hey, look at that," he said softly, so close that his lips brushed against Lassiter's mouth as he spoke. "Evidence."

At the same time as he felt Lassiter's hand light on the back of his neck to pull him the fraction of an inch in for a kiss, he heard Juliet say "Carlton? Are you in here?"

Shawn hastily let go of the bars and stepped away from Lassiter. "Yeah Jules, Binky's in here," he called out, since Lassiter seemed momentarily incapable of speech.

"Oh," Juliet said, as she came into the jail, "what are you two doing in there?"

"We were playing a naughty game of Sheriff and outlaw," Shawn said honestly, and was grateful that the room was dim enough that Juliet couldn’t see that Lassiter was blushing. "You wanna join us, Jules? You can be my lusty deputy."

"Shawn!" Juliet scolded, her tone somewhere between amused and scandalized, while at the same time Lassiter snapped "Spencer!"

"Your loss. You both know you're totally going to regret not taking me up on it later." He strolled past Juliet, as she told Lassiter that Chief Vick wanted them back in Santa Barbara to give their statements about the shooting.

He needed to find Gus, but he paused outside around the corner from the jail to give his heart rate a chance to get back to normal. Oh god, what had he just done? That was beyond Impulsiveville and straight into Recklesstown. Only…he had been able to erase the sad, forlorn look off of Lassie’s face, and it had felt so fucking good.

Henry had told him that he was too emotionally invested in this case because of Lassiter’s involvement, a remark so insightful that he had briefly wondered if his dad knew who the object of his interest was after all, but it wasn’t until he had seen Lassie sitting alone in that jail cell, looking like he had just lost everything in the world that mattered to him, that he realized just how far gone he really was. What the hell was wrong with him?

***

Lassiter tapped his fingers furiously on the steering wheel, frustration radiating from every pore. He wasn't sure how things had gotten so out of control with Spencer; one minute they seemed to be having a perfectly civil, even friendly, conversation, and the next Shawn had him trapped and turned on and right on the verge of doing something that he promised himself he wouldn't do again.

"Carlton, is something wrong? Are you worried about justifying the shooting? Because he was about to pull on you, I'll testify to that. And he's going to be fine, you just winged his shoulder."

"Thanks, O'Hara," he said. He felt a little guilty for letting her assume that he was worried about the consequences of shooting a suspect, but it was better than telling her the truth.

Would it be so wrong to give in to what Spencer was offering? He had a divorce under his belt, a series of dates that ultimately led nowhere, and a career that demanded a great deal of his time and attention. Maybe a friends-with-benefits situation was the way to go (not that he would characterize Shawn as a friend). He and Lucinda had shared a relationship of that type, though they had never had any of the antagonism between them that characterized so much of his interaction with Spencer. Lucinda was someone he could see himself sharing a future with, even as he'd been hoping the whole time to get Victoria back.

He could see now how unfair to Lucinda he'd been, sleeping with her while still thinking he and Victoria would reconcile, keeping her as a sort of back-up in case things with his wife didn't work out. No wonder she'd taken off as soon as the relationship was outed. Which was Spencer's fault, he reminded himself.

Clearly, he was terrible at relationships. He was too weird, too paranoid, too much of a workaholic. What civilians like Victoria and Jonathan didn't understand was that he WAS his work. He didn't clock out at the end of the day and stop thinking about cases. One of Spencer's better qualities was that in his own way, he was as much about the work as Lassiter was. Sure, Shawn's way included lots of diversions, but Lassiter had figured out a long time ago that whatever ridiculousness he was up to, Shawn's brain was always working.

Maybe if Spencer tried to instigate something again, he would do exactly what he wanted to do and give in. He could burn off a little frustration, and since Spencer would be even more determined than Lassiter to keep it discreet, it shouldn't affect their professional relationship (assuming anything Spencer did could be considered "discreet" or "professional").

He could do that. He could be a free-wheeling casual sex kind of guy. Spencer apparently could be that way, and anything Spencer could do, Lassiter could do too, right?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Continuing our journey into S4, this chapter picks up right after "The Devil is in the Details...and the Upstairs Bedroom" (maybe my favorite Psych episode title ever) and continues into "Shawn Gets the Yips"._

"You live at a dry cleaner." It wasn't so much a question as a statement of disbelief, uttered by Lassiter as he took in Shawn's apartment with a bewildered look that Shawn felt he shouldn't find adorable, but did.

"Technically, it's an ex-dry cleaner. I don't actually do anyone's laundry, unless it's an emergency and they offer me a really good rate."

"But...why?"

"Dude, the rent is spectacularly low. I solved a case for the landlady once, figured out which one of her employees was skimming a little off the top, and in return she gave me a stupid good offer on this place. I think she meant as office space? But I already have an office, so I made it an apartment instead."

"Is that what this is?" Lassiter asked, eyeing a pile of clothes on top of the popcorn machine suspiciously. "It looks more like a fire hazard."

Shawn rolled his eyes and grabbed Lassiter's sleeve to tug him towards the couch in front of the television.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen The Exorcist II before, Lassie! It’s a classic. Well, it's the sequel to a classic.”

Lassiter shrugged uncomfortably. “Mother didn’t approve of horror movies, and I never had much interest in them anyway. I only saw the first one because Victoria liked it.”

“This is gonna be great,” Shawn enthused, turning off the lights and closing the blinds. “We have popcorn, we have beer, we have Gus’s blu-ray player, and now we have perfect atmospheric conditions: near total darkness. Now remember Lass, it’s okay to hold my hand if you get scared.”

“I’m not going to get scared, Spencer,” Lassiter scoffed. “It’s just a movie, and I’m not a child.”

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Shawn advised as he started the movie.

He could hardly believe that he managed to talk Lassie into this, a situation that could only be construed as a date. He had started off by asking if Lassie wanted to come over and watch The Exorcist, saying that it would offer insight into the case they had just closed, but Lassiter said he had already seen it, which led to Shawn suggesting the sequel. He was shocked when Lassiter actually agreed.

The question he was avoiding asking himself was WHY he had invited Lassie over for a date when it broke his rules in such a big, irrefutable way. It was a question he planned to continue to avoid for as long as he possibly could.

Lassiter gave the movie a solid hour, growing increasingly restless, before he finally broke.

 

"Spencer? Does this movie ever get any better?"

 

"Mmmm. No. No, it's terrible from beginning to end."

 

"Then why the hell did you invite me over to watch it?"

 

Maybe it was his imagination, but Shawn seemed to be edging a little closer to him on the couch. "I should think that would be obvious, Lassie. A dark room, a scary movie, an innocent ingenue waiting to be seduced..."

 

"Did you really just refer to me as an innocent ingénue?" Lassiter asked disbelievingly.

 

"No, I was talking about myself," Shawn said, and somehow he had gotten much too close, so close, in fact, that he was able to lean over and nip lightly at Lassiter's jaw. "You should take the hint and seduce me."

 

Lassiter pretended to ignore him, mostly because he knew it drove Shawn nuts. "And this movie isn't scary at all, it's just terrible. The first one, now, that was a scary movie."

 

“I can see how that one would be bad for a good Catholic boy like you," Shawn acknowledged, sliding his hand down Lassiter's chest as he started to unbutton his shirt.

Lassiter curled his fingers into the couch cushion and resolutely kept his hands to himself. “Spencer, the only time I’ve been to church in the past twenty years was when Victoria wanted to go to Christmas Eve mass.”

“But you went to a Catholic school when you were a kid, didn’t you?” Shawn prodded, kissing Lassiter's neck lightly.

“Yes, but that was a long time ago. And how do you know that anyway?”

“Psychic,” Shawn murmured, trying to figure out his next move. Seducing Lassie was a delicate art.

“Bullshit,” Lassiter said. “Religion obviously did you no good. You lie as easily as you breathe.”

“Gus made me go to confession today, so that means I get to start over with the sinning, right?” he asked, running his thumb along Lassiter’s jaw, to his chin. He could feel Lassie catch his breath, and the heartbeat under his fingers fluttered with excitement.

“No, that’s not what it means,” Lassiter said hoarsely. He still hadn’t made any move to stop Shawn, but he wasn’t reciprocating either. “Did you learn nothing in Sunday School as a child?”

“What can I say, Lassie?” Shawn said as he nudged closer, ready to replace his thumb with his lips, “I was born a skeptic.”

The world tilted dangerously as Shawn suddenly found himself flat on his back on the sofa, Lassiter looming over him.

“That’s a strange position for a psychic to take,” Lassiter growled, trapping him against the sofa cushions.

“You can get me in much stranger positions if you want,” Shawn promised breathlessly. “All you have to do is ask.”

"What the hell are you doing, Spencer? First you tell me that we can't do this in Santa Barbara because you have 'rules', and then you say you're breaking your rule for one night only, and now it seems like you're trying to get into my pants on a weekly basis."

"Rules are boring," Shawn said, and arched up so that Lassiter could feel how hard he already was. "This, on the other hand, is not boring. Come on Lassie, we can be secret fuck buddies. That would definitely not be boring."

Lassiter gazed down at him, feeling the almost magnetic pull between them. This was it, exactly what he had come here for. He had Shawn’s wrists pinned down, and could feel the rapid pulse beating in his wrist, see the way his eyes had darkened with lust. He could do this, he could, and in a few weeks Shawn would get bored and awkwardly dump him, because none of this meant anything more to Shawn than the thrill of being "secret fuck buddies", and what was already an often fraught working relationship would become even more difficult to manage.

And when Spencer inevitably got tired of him, he would be alone. Again.

Reluctantly, he stood up.

"I should go."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Shawn said, his voice sharp with frustration.

Lassiter looked down onto the couch where Shawn was sprawled, then looked hastily away, because he made a far too inviting picture, which was exactly the problem. If he let this happen, he would be opening himself up to a world of hurt.

"I can't do this," Lassiter said quietly.

Shawn sat up. "Yes, you can. I know you can because I just felt the weapons grade lead pipe in your pants. What I don't understand is why you won't."

"I thought I could be like you, Spencer, but that's not me."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, be like me?"

"I thought..." Lassiter paused and ran his hand across his face, still trying to get himself under control. "I can't do casual, Shawn. I can't sleep with you tonight and pretend like it never happened tomorrow when you come to the station with Guster."

Shawn turned away, crossing his arms across his chest as if he could ward off the hollowness he felt. "Well," he said quietly, "I guess you should leave, then."

"Yeah," Lassiter agreed, resigned, "I guess I should."

After he was gone, Shawn slumped back down onto the couch, not even bothering to turn on a light. This was all his fault, he knew. He had set the guidelines for their relationship from the beginning, and then he had proceeded to repeatedly break his own rules, and Lassie was someone who liked rules, someone who lived by them. It was no wonder that Lassiter didn't know if he was coming or going, even though Shawn had definitely been trying for "coming".

Lassiter said he couldn't do casual, but casual was all that Shawn felt he was built for. His friendship with Gus was the only relationship he had ever been serious about, and part of why that succeeded was because he and Gus were only very rarely serious at all.

He wasn't big on introspection, but maybe he needed to figure out why he was so hellbent on sleeping with Lassie again. Sure, the sex had been awesome and all, but he'd had awesome sex before without going off the rails completely and breaking his Straight in Santa Barbara policy.

Or instead of trying to figure any of that out, maybe he could work on beating his high score in Super Mario. Yeah, that definitely sounded like the better plan.

Lassiter didn't start his car immediately, instead sitting in front of Shawn's apartment, trying to corral his feelings into their usual orderly state. He hated this, hated feeling out of control and like he didn't know what he wanted from one moment to the next. He didn't even know what it was that he wanted from Shawn; sex, obviously, but beyond that he couldn't imagine the two of them in any kind of relationship, even in an imaginary world in which Shawn was open about his sexuality.

Sighing, he cranked the car and drove home, resigning himself to lonely nights in an empty bed for the foreseeable future.

Lassiter tried to resolve to himself to stay away from Spencer as much as possible after that, but with work it was impossible; Spencer and Guster even played on the department's softball team, so he saw them even when he was on what should have been his recreational time, not that he liked team sports very much, but as Head Detective, he felt that he needed to be seen participating in the station's group activities.

Shawn acted towards him much as he always did, with no hint that anything had changed between them. And, Lassiter thought, nothing really had changed, he just felt like it had. When he refused the offer to be "secret fuck buddies", he felt like he was shutting a door between them.

He did sometimes catch Shawn watching him, almost studying him like he was trying to figure something out, but he tried to ignore it as best he could, though sometimes it was difficult to disregard. Spencer really did have the most unusual eyes, not just the fact the color was impossible to pin down, appearing blue or green or some color in-between depending on what he was wearing or his mood, but also because sometimes, when he was truly focusing his attention on something, so much so that he dropped his usual act, then it almost seemed like he could look right through someone, like he could see all of their secrets.

Jesus. Christ. He was sitting around mooning over Spencer’s eyes. He might as well start doodling “Lassie and Shawn 4eva!!” on all of his reports, thereby completing his transformation into a twelve year old girl.

So it wasn't so much that he was over whatever it was he felt for Shawn as it was that he was resolved to move past it without any more private encounters between them.

That was easier to do when there was big case to work, and an armed assailant opening fire on the SBPD softball team in a crowded restaurant was as big as a case could get. Unfortunately, Spencer realized that the gunman had been aiming for Lassiter himself, leading Vick to make the boneheaded decision to keep him locked away in the station

He had been serious when he said the he took great pride in the fact that a number of people wanted to kill him, but never before had that fact been so inconvenient for him. Spencer was insufferable about it, of course, which was almost a relief because it was easier not to have silly adolescent fantasies about his mouth or his hands or his ass when he was being so obnoxious that Lassiter wanted nothing more than to throw things at him. Which he did.

Because he had been such a jackass earlier, it was a surprise when Spencer turned up later that day, without Guster or O'Hara in tow. Vick had gone to a meeting, leaving him with strict orders not to leave the station, and instructing McNab to keep an eye on him, which seemed to Lassiter like overkill, mostly because it made it impossible for him to sneak out the way he wanted to.

So he wasn't at all in the best possible mood when Spencer showed up, which Shawn had apparently anticipated, since he came into the room brandishing a cup of frozen yogurt, which he handed to Lassiter before saying a word.

"I felt bad that you missed the frozen yogurt guy earlier, so I brought you one. With sprinkles!"

With great difficulty - because he WAS hungry, and the multi-colored sprinkles on top WERE inviting - Lassiter set the yogurt aside.

"Have you figured anything out yet?" he demanded.

"Not yet, Lassiecakes," Shawn said, staying near the door as if he were afraid Lassiter would start throwing things at him again.

"Then what the hell are you doing here? Get back to work!"

"Whoa! You are tense, man. Chill. Jules and Gus are still looking through the files at the Psych office. I'm just making a quick smoothie run, and I thought I'd check in on you."

"Spencer," Lassiter said, as patiently as he could manage, "someone tried to kill me today, and Vick has tied my hands by making me stay here, so I need you actually focus your attention on something for once and figure out who is responsible so that I can get out of here and make them pay!"

Shawn took a nearly imperceptible step back so that he was nearly out the door, and Lassiter realized that he hadn't actually managed to convey "patience" after all and had been yelling by the end of his sentence. He took a deep breath and added, in a much quieter voice, "Please".

Shawn bounced a little on his toes but didn't back any further away. "Lassie, you worry too much. Of course we're going to figure it out! That's what we do! But," his voice dropped into a more serious tone that Lassiter had only heard from him a few times before, "you have to do what the Chief says and stay here. You getting killed would seriously mess with my mojo."

Lassiter dropped into a chair and picked up the yogurt with a sigh. "I couldn't be more useless on this case if I were murdered. Maybe then I could tell you who did it from the psychic plane," he joked, then added hastily "if you weren't a big fake, that is."

For once, Shawn didn't look amused. "I prefer the flesh-and-blood version of you, no matter how frustrating you are. When Jules told me that you had been shot at again, that your car hit a tree...well. I mean," he added quickly, "I knew right away from my contacts in the spirit realm that you were fine, but I don't need that kind of stress, Lassie. It causes wrinkles. Anyway! I should go. Gus will be wondering where his Berry Berry Quite Contrary Smoothie is."

Being as close to the exit as he already was, he was out the door before Lassiter could formulate a reply. Taking a bite of his yogurt, Lassiter marveled over the fact that for just a second, he almost believed that Spencer had been worried about him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Obviously, this picks up right after the episode "Shawn Gets the Yips"._

He couldn't get the image out of his head, Lassiter on his knees, a gun to his head. He tried to tell himself that the reason it bothered him was because it totally perverted all of this usual fantasies that included Lassie on his knees, but the truth was that it made him feel sick and cold and shaky.

If they had been just two minutes later...one minute later...it was pointless to try and make calculations like that. Simpler to know that if they had been any later, Lassie would have been dead. D.E.A.D. Not around to growl at Shawn for invading his crime scenes, or accuse him of lying, or snap at him to get out of the station, or pull him out of harm's way when someone was trying to kill him, or give him a grudging but honest "good job" when he caught the bad guys, or kiss him with so much need that it felt as necessary as breathing.

After Gus dropped him off at the office, he got on his bike and rode around for a while, restless and unsettled. He tried to talk himself out of going to see Lassiter; Lassie wouldn't want him around, he tried to tell himself, and he had been trying like hell to behave himself and not end up in another situation with Lassiter rejecting him and him trying to remind himself that he wasn't supposed to be chasing after guys -- a guy -- in Santa Barbara anyway.

He kept flashing back to earlier that afternoon though, Lassiter, restrained with his own handcuffs, gun to his head...Shawn had to see him. Just to check in on him. That was what friends did, right? And they were sort of like friends.

He made one stop along the way, at a grocery store, because he didn't want to arrive empty-handed. Wasn't a gift traditional after near-death experiences? If it wasn't, it should be.

He knew Lassie was home from the car in the driveway and the lights in the house. He knocked on the door, but there was no response, so he pounded on it again and again until finally it swung open and Lassiter was scowling at him. Jacket and tie off, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, hair mussed like he had been running his hand through it. Shawn could tell just by looking that he had been drinking, but wasn't yet quite drunk.

"Spencer," he said tiredly as he opened the door, "what are you doing here? No, wait, don't tell me. Let's just skip right to the part where I tell you to go away."

"Don't be silly Lassie, I come bearing gifts."

"What kind of gifts?" Lassiter asked grudgingly, clearly curious despite himself.

Shawn shook his head. "You have to let me in if you want to find out."

"Fine," Lassiter said after thinking it over for a moment, "you can come in, but for no more than five minutes. Got it?"

"Sure," Shawn said easily, "it's not like I don't have better things to do than bring you presents."

"Okay," Lassiter said once Shawn was inside and the door was closed behind him, "what have you got in the bag?"

"I noticed today that you were looking a little anemic, Lassie. All pale, and...pale."

Lassiter narrowed his eyes. "I'm not anemic, you half-wit. I'm just...pale. And if you've just come here to insult me, let me remind you that I've already had a crappy day and I really don't need you making it worse."

Shawn gave him his best hurt look. "I'm not trying to make your day worse, I'm here to make it better! Like I said, I thought you looked anemic, so I brought something to help with that."

He reached into the bag and pulled out a small box, which he handed to Lassiter, who opened it and found himself looking down at...a cupcake. It had pink frosting, and a tiny plastic horse stuck to the top. It looked like something baked for a child's birthday party. It also looked delicious, and though he would never admit it, the horsey on top was adorable.

"Spencer," he said slowly, "cupcakes don't help with anemia."

"No?" Shawn asked. "I think you're wrong about that. I'll ask Gus tomorrow, he'll know. You should eat it anyway, just to be safe. Also," he continued, reaching into the bag again and pulling out a can of whipped cream, "I noticed last time I was here that you didn't have any whipped cream in your refrigerator, and you should always have some on hand, for emergencies."

"Whipped cream emergencies?" Lassiter asked, bemused, taking the can that Shawn handed him.

"You never know when a situation will come up," Shawn asserted.

With a cupcake in one hand and a can of whipped cream in the other, Lassiter looked at his unwanted guest with mild confusion.

"First you bring me frozen yogurt, and now you're bringing me a cupcake and whipped cream." He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Are you trying to give me diabetes?"

Shawn snorted in amusement, "Yeah, it's the most insidious murder plot in history. Anyway, you've already got that covered with the way you drink your coffee every day."

"What's this about?" Lassiter asked tiredly, and Shawn couldn't help it; he glanced down at the red rings around Lassiter's wrists left by the handcuffs, then quickly looked away, hoping Lassie hadn't caught him.

"Oh!" he said, "I almost forgot. I also got you a TV Guide so you'll know when your soaps come on."

Lassiter took the proffered magazine and set it down with his other gifts. "Spencer, I'm fine. Thanks for stopping by. You can go now."

"Pffft, of course you're fine! Who suggested otherwise? Just because you had a GUN pointed at your HEAD earlier today doesn't mean anything," Shawn snapped, and he was shocked to realize just how incredibly angry he was.

"Not the first time," Lassiter reminded him, "and it probably won't be the last. It's part of the job."

"Bullshit," Shawn said, and Lassiter blinked at him in surprise, clearly taken aback by his vehemence. "You let him get the drop on you."

"Hey," Lassiter said sharply, his own temper flaring, "he was a good man, grieving his son. I never imagined he was capable of murder."

"That's your problem, Lassie, you don't have any imagination. You should never have let your guard down."

"Screw you, Spencer, you get held at gunpoint by some nutcase every other week! At least I'm actually a cop! Now," he said, taking Shawn's arm and pulling him towards the front door, "get out."

"Why?' Shawn asked, holding his ground, "so you can sit here alone and drink yourself into a stupor?"

"Spencer, if you don't get the fuck out of here right now, I'm going to arrest you for trespassing," Lassiter snarled, pushing him towards the door.

"No you're not," Shawn replied, and grabbed a fistful of Lassiter's shirtfront.

"You're not allowed to get taken out like that, Lassie. I don't care how sad his story was, he doesn't get to shoot you. You should have been more careful."

Shawn felt like his heart was in his throat, and he wasn't certain if it was because of the fight they were having, or because of Lassiter's proximity.

"You, of all people, don't get to give me lectures on being careful," Lassiter sneered, reaching up to peel Shawn's hands off of his shirt, which proved to be easier said than done due to the death grip Shawn had on him.

"I saved your life twice in one week," Shawn pointed out breathlessly. "Doesn't that mean that it belongs to me now?"

"Please. If that were true I would have owned your ass years ago," he replied, and Shawn made a sound of exasperated disbelief.

"Jesus, Lassie, what makes you think you don't?"

Lassiter froze, struck dumb by the plaintive note of honesty in Shawn's voice, and seeing his opportunity, Shawn kissed him.

He was afraid Lassiter would pull away, would deny them both what they wanted, but instead Lassiter reached up to grip Shawn's jaw, kissing him back fiercely, and when his tongue slid into Shawn's mouth, Shawn felt a bolt of lust that seemed to go straight to his cock. He moaned, his fingers spreading out against Lassiter's chest, where he could feel the heartbeat, steady and strong and alive.

Shawn knew that he should stop, that his life was going to get even more complicated if he didn't, but for all the dancing around this they had done lately, it had been months since he'd tasted Lassiter, and now he couldn't get enough.

"I thought we were going to stop doing this," Lassiter said hoarsely as soon as they broke apart, but despite his words he didn't let go of Shawn.

"I don't care. You were almost killed today, so it's a special circumstance." He punctuated his words with another kiss, dizzy with lust as he pressed against the solid warmth of Lassiter's body, kissing him more insistently as Lassiter responded greedily.

They stumbled backwards until Shawn felt something at his back, and remembering that there was a table with neatly stacked files sitting on top of it behind him, he reached back and knocked them to the floor, hoisting himself onto the edge of the table and wrapping his legs around Lassiter to pull him closer, as close as he could, making Lassie groan at the sensation.

Shawn tugged Lassiter's shirt out of his pants, reached for his belt, ignored the fact that his hands were shaking. God, this was just like the first time in that dingy hotel room, with everything happening so fast that he couldn't think straight. He didn't know why Lassie of all people brought this out in him, this frantic need to have him, consequences be damned. He was going to regret doing this later, he knew it, but right now he couldn't think past how desperately he wanted to feel Lassiter hot against him.

Shawn felt Lassiter's hands slip under his shirt, pushing at it as he went until Shawn stopped to yank it off impatiently, and was rewarded with the scrape of a thumb against his nipple, making him squirm.

He ground against Lassiter's thigh, the friction good but not satisfying enough through the layers of clothes he still wore, but that didn't matter as he pulled down the zipper of Lassiter's pants and pushed past the soft cotton boxers, to the erection that throbbed eagerly against his hand. He rubbed his thumb at the clear fluid gathered at the tip, spreading it around, and heard Lassiter hiss a curse, his breath hot at Shawn's neck.

"You like that, don't you Lassie?" Shawn murmured encouragingly. "Yeah, that's right, I know you do. You think about this next time you're jerking off, remember what it felt like to have me --" Lassiter cut him off by kissing him again, as Shawn's hand slid lower, to stroke his balls before moving back to wrap around his cock, the pressure just a shade too hard, making Lassiter moan helplessly against Shawn's mouth.

It did something to Shawn, having Lassiter so vulnerable to him, gave him a rush of something that felt almost like power to have Lassiter thrusting into his hand. He could feel Lassie fumbling at the fly of his jeans, wanting to even the playing field no doubt, and he lifted his hips obligingly so that Lassie could shove his jeans and shorts down, the sensation of the hard surface of the table against his bare ass sending a different sort of thrill through him, one that was immediately subsumed by the feeling of Lassie's hand wrapped around his dick. Lassiter copied his earlier actions, spreading the precome he found to slick his hand down and then back up, painstakingly slow, the rough calluses on his trigger finger making Shawn writhe, making him glad that he was sitting down, because even sitting he felt weak-kneed and light-headed.

He bit at Lassiter's shoulder through the cheap cotton-poly blend work shirt he was still wearing, worked his hand ruthlessly on Lassiter's cock, recognizing the hitch in his breathing to mean that he was close, and was proven right seconds later when Lassiter released his grip on Shawn so that he could plant both of his hands on the table, and came, breathing raggedly against Shawn's shoulder.

Shawn wiped his hand clean on Lassie's shirt (he had to own at least ten just like it, Shawn reasoned, so it shouldn't matter if he had to take a loss on one), then rubbed soothing little circles along Lassiter's back, kissed his jaw and along his neck, and tried to wait patiently even though his own erection was screaming for attention.

After a moment, Lassiter raised his head and looked at him, still glassy-eyed and flushed. It made Shawn's insides twist to see Lassie so undone.

"Anything I can do for you, Spencer?" he asked, his voice low and rumbly.

"Oh, you know," Shawn said shakily, "if you have a few minutes to kill and you're looking for something to do..."

Lassiter kissed him, tugging him forward until Shawn was on his feet again, leaning against the table.

"What..." Shawn started to ask, but he swallowed the word in shock when Lassiter dropped to his knees and took Shawn's cock into his mouth.

"Fuck," Shawn gasped, "...Lassie..."

It couldn't possibly last long after that, not with the slow, steady, suction of Lassiter's mouth, or the way his hand curled around Shawn's bare hip, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of his ass, or the way his tongue flickered across the head of Shawn's erection, teasing the sensitive slit there. Shawn tried to be a well-mannered blow job recipient, tried to warn Lassiter and pull away before he came, but Lassie just swallowed him down, leaving Shawn wobbly and drained, grateful for the support of the table behind him because without it, he was certain he would have slumped to the floor.

Lassiter wiped his hand across his mouth, slowly stood back up, and Shawn grabbed him by that stupid shirt he was still wearing and pulled him close, burying his head against Lassie's shoulder, feeling like pieces of himself were slowly coming back together after having been blown apart.

Blown. Heh. He giggled a little against Lassie's shoulder, amused at his own wordplay.

"Something funny?"

"Yeah. I think we defiled your dining room table."

"Shut up, Spencer," Lassiter muttered, but there was no animosity in his tone, and Shawn smiled against his neck.

"If you're trying to get me turned on again, you're going to have to wait a few minutes."

Lassiter sighed and took a step back, but Shawn wasn't quite ready for contact to be broken, so he grabbed Lassiter's hand, running his fingers back and forth across the raw line left by the handcuffs he had been forced into earlier in the day. He could tell that Lassiter was starting to come back down to earth and ask himself how this could have happened again, and he could feel himself starting to get pissed off by that reaction, before Lassiter had even expressed it.

"Don't you dare regret this, or tell me it was a mistake, or say something stupid about how we can never do it again," he said, the words tumbling out of him, harsher than he intended.

Lassiter did pull away at that, straightening his clothes, refastening his pants and belt. This was the part Shawn hated, the awkward, embarrassing post-sex moments, the moments in which he remembered that he was practically naked in Lassiter's dining room. He pulled his own clothes back on, not quite looking at Lassiter, who made his way back into the living room to sit down heavily on the couch. Cautiously, Shawn followed, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, as far away from Lassiter as he could get.

"I don't understand why we keep doing this," Lassiter said forlornly.

Shawn shrugged. "Maybe it's because we keep denying ourselves. Wait, no, that's not right; what actually happens is that I keep propositioning you, and you keep shooting me down."

Lassiter punched the cushion next to him in frustration. "No, what happens is that you keep coming on to me despite the fact that you're the one who said in the first place that we weren't bringing this back to Santa Barbara. And then the night of the Yang case, you're the one who said it was a one-night-only thing. But you keep pushing me."

"I don't have to push that hard," Shawn pointed out, but he felt a little queasy because he knew that Lassiter was right.

"Look, maybe I was wrong," Shawn said, and rolled his eyes when Lassiter mock gasped in shock. "Maybe if we give in to our deep, dark, lusty feelings for each other, in a couple of weeks we would both get over it. I'm thinking this is something we need to get out of our systems so that we can move on."

"Interesting," Lassiter said consideringly, "so, you're saying that we need to have sex until we're sick of each other?"

"Basically, yeah. I mean, don't take this personally Lassie, but I like the chase. Once you start giving it up for me, I'm bound to lose interest."

"Yeah, I'm not going to take that personally because it says a lot more about you than it does about me," Lassiter said, his forehead furrowed in thought. "Maybe it could work. Prolonged exposure to you is bound to make me want to kill you more than kiss you."

"That's the spirit! Uh, assuming you can keep your homicidal impulses under wraps."

"I've managed for this long."

"True."

Shawn wasn't sure what to say after that; the ball was in Lassie's court now and it was his decision to make. Shawn knew what he wanted, even if it destroyed all of his usual rules about what he allowed himself to do in Santa Barbara.

Right now, what he really wanted was to go to sleep for a while. Preferably in Lassie's bed so that they could have sex again when he woke up. Even now, he could barely keep his eyes open. Maybe he could just lean his head against Lassie's shoulder and...whoa. That was not a good idea. There was a world of difference between screwing around with Lassie to get off and snuggling up to him while he slept. He edged slightly away from Lassiter, embarrassed by his rampant attack of girly emotions.

"If we did this, how would it work?" Lassiter asked. "I mean, we wouldn't actually be dating, would we?" He looked horrified by the idea, a feeling Shawn heartily agreed with.

"NO!" Shawn said quickly, "not dating, not at all. This would be more like booty calls, you know?"

"Spencer, I'm not eighteen. You're going to have to define what you mean by that."

"Jeez, you're not eighty either Lassie, no matter how much you want to act like you are. I know you've had one night stands. This would be like that, only more than one night, and with someone you work with for extra awkwardness. Except, there won't be any awkwardness because we both know this is just a temporary thing."

"And it would be secret?"

Shawn took a deep breath, because he knew this was the hardest part to sell. "Yeah, it would be. This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done something like this, Lassie. You kept your relationship with Detective Berry a secret from everyone.”

Lassiter glared at him. “Yes I did, and look how that worked out for me,” he snapped. “I got outed in front of my coworkers by a snot-nosed little con artist, and I lost a girl I really cared about because she transferred to get away from the stigma of sleeping with her superior.”

Shawn winced; bringing up Lucinda might have been a miscalculation. “Look, why get everyone all in a tizzy over something we both know isn't going to last more than a few weeks? I get that you're not afraid to um, come out of the closet or whatever at work, but do you really want to do that over ME?"

"You make a good point," Lassiter admitted, after a long pause that had Shawn holding his breath in anticipation. “I don’t like to lie about things, Spencer, and I don’t like secrets. But, if we agree that this is a temporary thing, I guess I could live with it.”

So, what do you say, Lass? You wanna tap this ass? Rock my casbah? Wang Chung tonight?"

Shawn tried not to fidget while he waited for the answer; Lassiter looked thoughtful, and also tempted. Finally, he gave a short nod. "Fine. But we'll have to agree on some rules. And you'll actually have to obey the rules or the whole thing's off. You can manage that for a couple of weeks, right?"

"Sure I can. Don't you worry your pretty little head over it. I have some rules too, you know. Rule number one: You can never get your hair cut this short again. That goes for whether we’re sleeping together or not. Rule number two: I get to go through your tie collection and throw out all of the ones that make my eyes bleed. Rule number three--"

“Rule number three is that this doesn’t affect anything that happens down at the station. Work is work and this is…whatever the hell this is,” Lassiter said firmly.

Shawn nodded in agreement. "Soooo, now that that's settled, could we maybe clean up a little and get something to eat? Do you have anything here besides alcohol and whipped cream and a cupcake?"

"The cupcake is mine," Lassiter informed him, "but you can have anything from the kitchen that you want."

"Awesome," Shawn said happily, and stood up to check out the food situation. Lassiter slowly got to his feet as well.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said tiredly, and Shawn paused.

"Eat your cupcake first," he suggested, "and if you want, I could join you for that shower. You know, to conserve water and all. It would be the responsible thing to do."

It was hard to tell because the only light in the room was coming from the television, but Lassiter looked like he was blushing. "You really want to? I mean, we just..."

Shawn grinned. "If the point is for us to burn through all these lusty wrong feelings as fast as we can, then shouldn't we get started immediately?" He started for the kitchen again, only to stop and pick up the can of whipped cream, tossing it to Lassiter. “Here. We’re going to need that later.”


	13. Chapter 13

"I'm cursed," Raj Singh explained, and suddenly Shawn understood why Lassiter had given him this case. He might not actually be psychic, but he knew that Lassie was laughing at him behind the observation window.

It had been a few days now since they had started their...whatever this was. Lassie preferred the straightforward word "affair", but Shawn found that too bland. He was partial to calling it an "erotic odyssey of hot manlove", but for some reason that description seemed to make Lassiter uncomfortable.

One of the stipulations Lassiter had laid out for him when they came to their agreement was that their relationship at the station not change in any way. This wasn't to affect their work. If this wasn't a real relationship, and they both agreed that it wasn't, then Lassiter didn't want any hint of it to infiltrate their interactions in front of his coworkers. Shawn was fine with that, as it fit perfectly with his desire to keep this thing secret from Gus.

Normal for the two of them at the station included a lot of trying to one-up each other. Hence Lassiter handing him a case with a lunatic; or, well, maybe not a lunatic. His girlfriend had nearly been killed, or at least seriously injured, after all. But it could have been an accident, and the poor dude was obviously not under a love curse, since there was no such thing. Whatever the reason for his bad luck, as far as Shawn was concerned the gauntlet had been thrown down and his chief interest was in making certain that Lassiter didn't get away with thinking he had gotten one over on Shawn in some way.

It wasn't until Mina almost fell through the booby-trapped floor that she was dancing on that all of Shawn's senses went on high alert as he realized that someone actually was trying to kill her.

Later that night he lay stretched out across Lassiter's bed, sweat cooling on his body as he closed his eyes and relived the past half hour, the almost frantic hot slick slide of he and Lassie grinding against each other until they both came. He couldn't remember anyone ever making him feel as desperate, as needy, as Lassiter did, and on the other side of that, his usual compulsion to leave as soon as the sex was over seemed to have vanished. For one thing, he felt completely boneless, relaxed in every molecule, and the energy to do anything more than roll over and take a nap seemed beyond him. For another thing, he liked the way that Lassiter's hand was currently resting on his hip, and he felt weirdly unwilling to dislodge it.

He should get up and go, though. Sleeping over implied something a lot more serious than what they were doing, and besides, Gus was picking him up at his place in the morning so they could start their investigation. He thought maybe Lassie had dozed off anyway, so he wouldn't even notice if Shawn left.

He started to shift slightly, trying to remember if his pants were in the bedroom or in the hallway, and was so wrapped up in thoughts of leaving that he jumped a foot at the sound of Lassiter's voice.

"How did you know?"

"Jeez dude, I thought you were asleep. How did I know what? I know lots of things, Lassie. You're going to have to be more specific."

Lassiter sighed and sat up, breaking the minimal contact that had existed between them and leaving Shawn feeling suddenly cold and sticky and not as satisfied as he'd been even thirty seconds ago.

"How did you know that the floor underneath Mina was about to give way?"

"Ah," Shawn said, getting out of the bed and making a beeline for his underwear, which he spotted lying inexplicably on Lassiter's dresser, "don't tell me that sleeping with me has made you forget about my awesome powers, Lass."

"Don't do that," Lassiter said grumpily. "We both know that there's no such thing as psychics. I want to know how you really did it."

Shawn paused in the process of zipping up his jeans, which had been lying in the doorway, his stomach knotting with apprehension. "Do you really want to do this? I thought we weren't mixing the work stuff with the sex stuff."

Lassiter ran his hand across his face, looking far more frustrated than he should given the circumstances, and it made Shawn want to do nothing more than make him relax again. He should have made this one of their rules, that they never discuss the psychic thing, but it hadn’t occurred to him at the time, and he felt that if he tried to do it now, Lassie would freeze up on him, rethink what they were doing. Diversion was definitely the better option. Reversing course, he went back to the bed, crawling up to Lassie so that he could straddle him.

"Spencer, what are you doing?" Lassiter asked, but even as he did his hands were coming up to rest at Shawn’s sides, thumbs stroking little patterns against his ribs, fingertips sliding underneath the waistband of the jeans, like he couldn’t stand to be this close to Shawn and not touching him.

"You focus on the wrong things, Lassie," Shawn said earnestly, running his hand across Lassiter's chest so that he could feel the soft tickle of the chest hair against his palm. "The important thing is that Mina is okay, and oh yeah, also that you totally handed me an actual, non-curse related case, which I'm going to solve tomorrow, or maybe the next day. How I do it is not nearly as important as the fact that I'm going to do it."

He leaned forward to try and kiss the furrows away from Lassie's forehead, but Lassiter stopped him with a hand to his sternum.

"What makes you so sure that you're going to be the one to solve it?" he asked, frowning mightily, which for some reason made Shawn want to crack jokes or sing a song or do a little dance or...basically do whatever it took to make Lassie smile. Oh well, he had, at least, figured out a few things that distracted Lassie. He ignored the hand holding him back and leaned forward to nip lightly at Lassiter's ear.

"I told you, you focus on the wrong things. Like right now, you should be thinking more about my mind-blowing blow job skills, not my mind-blowing crime solving skills."

He sucked wetly at the patch of skin under Lassiter's ear, increasing the pressure until he felt Lassie's arms wrap around him to pull him closer.

"That's better," Shawn said encouragingly. "You're going to give yourself a heart attack if you only think about work all the time."

"You seem determined to give me a heart attack in other ways," Lassiter griped, but when Shawn pulled back a little to study him again, he could see that the brow furrows and frown lines were all smoothed away, and that the corners of his mouth were turned up in the barest hint of a smile. Maybe he didn’t need to leave right away after all, Shawn thought, leaning down to kiss him again, feeling Lassie’s hands slide down to rest on his ass, pulling him closer.

His phone rang. Shawn didn’t even recognize the sound at first, drunk as he was on Lassiter’s kisses, but it was impossible to ignore for too long the strains of “Hip to be Square” coming from his back pocket. Sighing, he sat up and reached for the phone, looking apologetically at Lassiter.

“I have to. It’s Gus,” he explained, not adding that he couldn’t ignore a call from his partner when they were working a case, because that was something Lassiter already knew. Shawn took a deep breath to steady his breathing, hoping he didn’t sound like someone who was about to get laid for the second time that night, and answered.

“Hey buddy, what’s up?”

“Shawn, I’ve been researching love curses on the Internet, and I think Raj might really be cursed! Did you know that—”

“No. No. We’re not doing this again, Gus. We went through this before with the mummy. There’s no such thing as curses. Back away from the Internet.”

Underneath him, Lassiter arched an eyebrow with interest, and Shawn cursed himself for not watching his words more carefully. “Look, I can’t talk right now. I’m…on a date.”

“Oh,” Gus said, surprised, “who with?”

“No one you know,” Shawn said, watching as Lassiter’s frown reappeared.

“Shawn, did you pick up another waitress? I think you might have a problem.”

“They’re always bringing me food, Gus! I can’t help it if I find that attractive.”

“Whatever. But don’t think we’re finished talking about curses, Shawn! There are things out there that even you can’t explain.”

“I’m well aware,” Shawn agreed, stroking a hand up Lassiter’s chest, feeling a nipple harden against his palm. “Later, dude.”

“Where were we?” he asked, sticking the phone back into his pocket and bending forward to recapture the earlier mood. Lassiter kept him at bay though, an earnest expression on his face that boded no good, as far as Shawn was concerned.

"Guster isn't...prejudiced, right?" Lassiter asked hesitantly.

"No!" Shawn said, offended. "Don't be a leaky faucet Lassie, of course he's not."

"Then why the hell have you been so intent on keeping this from him? I don’t mean about us, I mean in general."

Shawn sighed, rolling off of Lassiter to lie on his back beside him, staring up at the ceiling. "When Gus and I were kids...well, twelve, thirteen, we would sneak into his dad's workshop to look at his Playboy magazines. We asked out our first dates together. We went through all of that adolescent crap at the same time. Gus is smooth like buttah, so he got laid before I did, but the whole 'girls' thing was something we figured out, you know, as a team. And in all that time, I never told him that I was into dudes, too. His feelings are going to be hurt that I kept something like that from him for twenty years."

"Have you considered that it might be worth it?"

Shaking his head, Shawn said "Nothing is worth hurting Gus. Anyway, I thought we had agreed that it didn’t matter. We’re not telling anyone, right? So what Gus doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Right,” Lassiter said stiffly, and Shawn resigned himself to the idea that he should leave now after all. He was just about to stand up when he suddenly found himself pinned to the bed, Lassiter’s blue eyes boring into him.

“So, wouldn’t it be a professional obligation for psychics to believe in curses?”

“Not at all,” Shawn said breathlessly, trying to think up a reason why that might be true. It was, however, difficult to think when all of the blood in his brain seemed to have rushed south. “Just because psychic powers exist doesn’t mean that everything you saw on The X-Files is true.”

“Don’t forget, I was there. You told Singh that you believed him. That you would help him lift the curse, even,” Lassiter pressed, doing something with his hips that was probably illegal in at least twenty states.

Shawn moaned, his fingers clenching into fists. It was completely unfair of Lassie to use tactics like this, and he was totally going to point that out. Later. Much, much later, he decided, as Lassiter bit gently at a nipple, before raising his head to look at Shawn again.

“Answer the question, Spencer.”

“You didn’t ask a question, Detective,” Shawn pointed out, and gasped as the grip on his wrists tightened while down below Lassiter’s thigh shifted away from where where he was so, so, achingly hard, leaving him feeling desperate for some kind of contact. He could feel the heavy drag of Lassiter’s cock against his belly, and really, he didn’t know how he was supposed to be expected to form coherent thoughts under the circumstances.

“The question, Psychic, is why did you tell Raj Singh that you could lift his curse, when I just heard you admit that you don’t believe in curses?” Lassiter asked through gritted teeth, his own iron control apparently starting to slip. He didn’t wait for the answer before moving to suck gently at Shawn’s other nipple, pausing to blow on it lightly, making Shawn shiver at the sensation and buck up in hopes of getting some sort of relief.

“If he believes in the curse so strongly, playing into his delusion is the only way to get him to trust me enough to figure out what really happened,” Shawn admitted, “now, please, please, for the love of –”

Lassiter silenced him with a kiss, releasing his wrists to reach down and pop the button on Shawn’s jeans.

“That sounded like the truth,” Lassiter mused, as he took Shawn in hand and finally gave him the contact he had been seeking. As he groaned in pleasure and pulled Lassiter back down to resume their kiss, he made a mental note to compliment Lassie later on his interrogation technique.

***  
Lassiter usually enjoyed being on stakeouts with O’Hara; she knew him well enough at this point in their partnership to know when he didn’t mind conversation and when he wanted some peace and quiet, and she was always mindful of the job they were there to do. The Singh investigation over, they were back on a more ordinary case involving stolen goods being smuggled from a warehouse. It wasn't a terribly interesting case, but even so, it was the kind of case that would normally have him paying close attention, anticipating an arrest. Tonight, however, he would rather be almost anywhere else. He couldn’t get Shawn out of his mind, wondering what the hell he was doing and worrying over what was going to happen when the inevitable crash-and-burn came.

This was all going to end in disaster, he was certain of it. There was no other conceivable outcome. And when it was over, Spencer would have an entirely new list of ways to embarrass him. He felt like he was putting his career, his very future, at risk, all because he had developed an irrational sexual obsession with a mercurial, irresponsible man-child.

His only consolation was that at least the ludicrous attraction he felt was mutual; Spencer was no doubt a practiced liar, but even he wasn’t capable of faking certain things. He thought back to earlier in the evening, Shawn digging his fingernails into the top of the kitchen table that he was bent over while Lassiter –

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, even for you,” Juliet said. “What are you thinking about?”

“O’Hara,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them, “have you ever dated anyone who was bad for you?”

“Carlton!” she gasped, delight apparent in her voice, and even in the near darkness of the car’s interior he could see that she was staring at him intently. “Are you seeing someone?”

“Never mind,” he snapped, cursing himself for letting anything slip.

She was silent for a moment, sipping at her coffee. “I dated my criminology professor in college,” she said finally. She was pointedly not looking in his direction now. “He was more than twenty years older than me, and I knew it was a mistake. He was an FBI profiler who was spending a semester teaching. He was so much more mature than the guys I was taking classes with, you know? He was older, worldly, brilliant. He was also the sexiest thing I had ever seen,” she continued, her tone growing dreamier as she went on, “he had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. I know, because once I actually –”

“O’Hara!” he yelped, desperate to stop that anecdote before it went any further. “I’m not one of your girlfriends. I don’t need that kind of detail.”

“Sorry,” she said not sounding the least bit embarrassed. “Anyway, it probably was a mistake, and it ended badly, mostly because I was so young and dumb, but I don’t regret it. I learned a lot from that relationship, and it was fun while it lasted. Plus, the sex was amazing.”

“You’re oversharing again,” he informed her.

“You started it,” she pointed out. “So, what brought this on?”

When he didn’t reply right away, she jabbed a finger in his direction in triumph. “You ARE seeing someone! Tell me about her!”

He sighed. “It’s nothing I want to talk about. Forget I brought it up.”

“Come on,” she wheedled, “you clearly want to talk about it or you would never have mentioned it. Where did you meet her?”

He pressed his lips together and didn’t say anything. After a few minutes she groaned and thumped him on the arm.

“Fine. Be all secretive. Since you won’t tell me anything, I can’t give you an informed opinion.”

“I didn’t ask you for your opinion.”

“But I know you want it. So I’ll give you my uninformed opinion: I think you should go for it. It would be good for you to get out of your comfort zone, and even if things don’t work out, you might learn something about yourself along the way. Also Carlton, sometimes you don’t know what’s good for you. Maybe instead of being bad for you, this person is exactly what you need.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during and after "High Top Fade Out". There is a chunk of dialogue in this chapter that was lifted from the episode, which is credited to Saladin K. Patterson and James Roday.

Shawn had no idea why Lassiter was being such a dick regarding the murder investigation of Gus's college friend Leonard. He knew for a fact that Lassiter was getting laid regularly — more than regularly, actually — so it couldn't be that. Lassiter always bitched about him and Gus working on cases, but it mostly seemed to be out of habit these days, and not with any actual animosity behind it, but for whatever reason, this case had brought out Lassiter's inner asshole, and if Shawn found it annoying, Gus was deeply insulted, due to his personal investment in the case.

It was interesting, fun even, to find out something new about Gus after all these years. Shawn had only seen Gus during holiday breaks and vacations when Gus had been in college, and he had a tendency to assume that those years must have been dull and uninteresting, filled with studying and classes and sweater vests, Gus taking the route of a normal, successful life while Shawn had been out having adventures. Occasionally though, he got glimpses into an entirely different life that Gus had been living during that time, one in which he impulsively married a free spirit like Mira Gaffney and sung in an acapella quartet.

It was scary too, though, realizing that Gus had made other friends that he was close to and had ended his friendships with them to the degree that Shawn didn't even realize that they existed. It gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach to think that Gus could so thoroughly cut people out of his life that he had once considered friends.

If Gus ever found out that Shawn was keeping secrets from him, would he be able to call it quits on their friendship so easily?

The thought of it scared Shawn enough that he was honest about it when Gus asked why he was so interested in Blackapella.

"The truth is, I took this case because I got freaked that you could have a falling out with dudes you used to be so close to, and I figured that if it could happen to you guys, then it could happen to us."

Gus gave him a look of exasperated disbelief. "Shawn, don't you realize that if none of the myriad of stupid, selfish, and ultimately life-threatening stunts you've pulled over the last four years could do it, it's probably not going to happen?"

Relieved, Shawn opened his mouth and it almost all spilled out, about him and Lassiter and his flexible sexuality, but then he remembered what a jerk Lassie was being on this case, and how just moments earlier Gus had said he had never before wanted to punch Lassiter until now, and he thought better of it. Shawn was happy that Gus considered their friendship rock solid, but he wasn't sure he wanted to test it right away.

Besides, with the way Lassiter had been acting for the past few days, he wasn't sure if they weren't through anyway. He thought back to the last time he had gone over to Lassie's apartment, the night before he had taken the case of Gus's Mysterious Former Friends. Everything had seemed normal at the time — well, normal for them, anyway. There had been sex, sweaty, satisfying, exhausting sex, and a pizza, and when Lassie turned on the TV, it was on some old movie channel and a Hitchcock movie that Shawn had never seen had been starting, so he stayed to watch it.

Maybe Lassie had gotten freaked out by how date-like the night had been, though Shawn had left when Lassiter had turned the TV to the 11 o'clock news, so it wasn’t like he was spending the night or anything. And it wasn't a date Shawn reassured himself, it was just that he hadn't eaten since lunch, and he and Lassie both liked Hitchcock movies.

Even if it was over — and Shawn sincerely hoped that it wasn't — that didn't mean that Lassiter had any reason to be acting like such a jackass. But, he reminded himself, it wasn't as if Lassie were the most socially competent person in the world. Maybe his version of breaking up was to be such a jerk that no one wanted to be around him.

It wasn't until later, when he found out why Lassiter and Juliet had been working so hard to keep Shawn and Gus away from the case, that he started thinking that ending this thing might not be such a bad idea after all. He couldn't believe that Lassie had been keeping the undercover operation a secret from him. Actually, he wasn’t sure what was worse: that Lassie had been keeping it from him, or that he hadn’t figured it out for himself before being told.

He was actually a little surprised when Lassiter came to his apartment that night, after the case was wrapped. Shawn couldn't help but laugh when he opened the door and saw him there.

"Not in the mood tonight, Lassie. In fact, you should probably just assume I have a headache every night from now until forever."

Lassiter scowled at him, which was unfair, Shawn thought, since he was the one who was mad. "Let me in, Spencer. We need to talk."

"Uh, no we don't. That's the beauty of this, Lassiter. It isn't a relationship, I'm not your wife or your girlfriend or boyfriend, or whatever, so we don't have to talk."

Lassiter pushed his way in anyway, glaring at Shawn like he was the one who had done something wrong, when Lassie was the big liarpants in this case.

"You know that I couldn't tell you and Guster what was really going on. I have a job to do, Spencer."

"And I'm not a cop. I'll never be a cop. Yeah, I remember. You made it very, very clear."

Lassiter's expression softened slightly as he took in Shawn's bitter tone. "I'm sorry if that was harsh. But it's true, and you know damn well that sometimes means that O'Hara and I have to keep you out of the loop on things. I won't apologize for doing my job, Spencer."

"I won't apologize for doing mine either," Shawn snapped back. "This case was personal for Gus, and that made it personal for me too, and you being a total assface made everything worse."

Lassiter sighed in exasperation. "What was I supposed to do, Shawn? Just tell you everything, and break every protocol that I've sworn to uphold? And," he added petulantly, "I am not an assface!"

Shawn crossed his arms across his chest, feeling defensive because he knew that Lassiter was right; he was never going to break rules for Shawn just because they were sleeping together, and the worst thing about that was that Shawn respected him for it. He liked that Lassie wasn’t a pushover for him. He couldn't quite let it go yet though, because that wasn't in his nature.

"If you had let me in on it from the beginning," he pointed out, "then Leonard's murder could have been solved even sooner."

"That was good work," Lassiter admitted grudgingly, "figuring out that he had used music to encrypt the information."

"Don't try to butter me up with compliments now, Detective Assface," Shawn said, but he could feel his hostility starting to drain away, and he dropped down onto the couch and picked up the remote control for his TV.

"I'm watching _Career Opportunities_. It's a minor movie in the John Hughes oeuvre, starring the incomparable Frank Whaley and Jennifer Connelly, who is hot like habaneros. I guess you can join me if you want." He grabbed a pillow and hugged it to himself as he spoke; he didn’t want Lassie to think that this was an open invitation to jump his bones. He would have to wait at least until the end of the movie before Shawn would be willing to put out. Fortunately, there was only about half an hour left in the movie.

After a moment, Lassiter sat down cautiously on the other end of the couch. For a few minutes, they watched the movie in silence. Then, Lassiter asked curiously, “Did you ever want to be a cop?”

Shawn squeezed the pillow tighter. “As I’m sure you could guess, Henry wanted me to be a cop. I thought it was what I wanted too when I was little, but when I got older, I realized that that was dad’s dream, not mine.”

“Your dream was being a fake psychic detective?” Lassiter asked dryly.

Shawn glared at him. “My dream was to live in a mansion built entirely of candy, and also to sleep with every cast member of Saved By the Bell. Except for Screech.”

“Even the principal?”

“Especially the principal.”

“So, no regrets, then?”

“About the Saved By the Bell thing? Yes, many regrets, and they are all named Mario Lopez. About the cop thing? No. The paperwork alone would kill me. And the dress code! I would have to give up my signature style.”

“That’s a style?” Lassiter asked, side-eyeing Shawn’s wrinkled button-down and faded jeans.

“You know you love it,” Shawn said huffily. “Although,” he added thoughtfully, “there is something to be said for your stuffy suits sometimes.”

He stood up, dropping the pillow to the floor and going to stand in front of Lassiter, who suddenly looked unnerved.

“What are you doing? I didn’t think you’d want to…I knew you were mad at me, so I didn’t think…I thought I was an assface!” he trailed off as Shawn reached down and tugged his tie off.

“Lucky for you, I like your ass, and I don’t hold grudges. Well, except for with my dad, but we don’t need to bring him up right now. Anyway, you’re going to make it up to me.”

“Am I?” Lassiter asked, his hands lighting on Shawn’s hips to pull him in a little closer.

“Yep,” Shawn said, and before Lassiter could think to protest, the tie was covering his eyes and he could feel Shawn tying the ends behind his head.

“Spencer! What the hell are you doing?”

“Something I’ve been wanting to do again since that day in the Psych office. You remember that, Lass?”

“I remember that I told you that I never closed my eyes around other people,” Lassiter snarked, but Shawn could see the combination of unease and arousal he was feeling. Silently, he stood up and moved behind the couch, walking on the balls of his feet like a cop, just like Henry had taught him (though he assumed Henry had never imagined him using his skills in a scenario like this).

Lassiter, his head cocked to the side, was clearly trying to figure out where he had gone.He jumped in shock when he felt the soft point of Shawn’s tongue tracing the shell of his ear.

“I’ve seen you close your eyes plenty of times,” Shawn pointed out, his voice no more than a whisper, and Lassiter shivered at the sensation of the warm breath against his ear. “Now, let’s see how you can make it up to me.”

Lassiter woke up several hours later in Shawn’s bed. He should get up and leave, he thought to himself; that was what Shawn always did. Besides, he had to go to work in the morning, and he didn’t have any clean clothes to change into here. But the pillow under his head was soft, and the bed was warm, and Shawn’s arm was thrown across his chest, so it would be almost impossible for him to get up without waking him, he reasoned, and Shawn was sleeping soundly, his breathing deep and even. Sleeping, he looked innocent, which was deceptive, Lassiter knew, since no one innocent could have thought up what he had done earlier with a tie and a feather. Why Spencer kept a feather in his bedroom was not a question Lassiter wanted to dwell on for very long, but he couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed what Shawn could do with it.

Someone innocent wouldn’t lie to the police about being psychic either, he reminded himself.

What did it say about him that he wasn’t sure he cared about that anymore?

After spending so much time with Shawn, he was more convinced than ever that he wasn’t anymore psychic than the average table lamp, and he did still want to know how Shawn solved cases, how he knew the things he knew, but the fact that he was a fraud didn’t bother Lassiter the way that it used to.

What did bother him – what he didn’t want to acknowledge bothered him – was that Shawn didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth. But could he blame Shawn for thinking that he might get arrested if he admitted anything? He honestly wasn’t sure what he would do if Shawn were to point-blank admit that he wasn’t psychic, that it was all a lie. He had said just a few hours before that he wasn’t going to break protocol for Shawn, and he had meant it at the time, but he had a terrible feeling that he might be kidding himself.

“Stop thinking so much,” Shawn mumbled sleepily, and Lassiter blinked at him in the dark, surprised, as always, by Shawn’s uncanny perception.

“I thought you were asleep,” Lassiter said softly. “I was just thinking that I should leave.”

Instead of moving away, as Lassiter expected he would, Shawn’s arm actually tightened around him. “Too comfortable to move. Go back to sleep.”

“I have to go to work in a few hours,” Lassiter said reluctantly, “and I can’t wear the same clothes I wore yesterday. I should go home.”

Shawn yawned, and continued to not move away. “Don’t care. Sleep now.”

It was tempting, and Lassiter actually closed his eyes for a few minutes, reveling in the warmth and intimacy of sleeping next to Shawn. I could get used to this, he thought, and that was enough to propel him out of the bed.

“Lassie! I was in the zone, man. The perfect sleep zone. And you ruined it!”

“Don’t let me keep you from the perfect sleep zone,” Lassiter said dryly. “I’ll be out of here as soon as I find my pants, and you can go back to sleep.”

“The zone was contingent on you staying perfectly still,” Shawn said grumpily. He yawned again and stretched, and Lassiter hastily turned away from the bed because he wanted to crawl back into it and, well, it still made him blush to consider the things he’d like to do once he was there.

He fled as quickly as he could, muttering a quick goodbye to Shawn, who sounded like he was half asleep again already. Back in his own apartment, he wished sleep could come as easily for him; he had time for another couple of hours before he had to start getting ready for work, but he found himself staring at the ceiling over his bed, still unsettled by how content he had felt waking up beside Shawn.

Sex could do that, he reminded himself. It was just the oxytocin and the dopamine and whatever other hormones were at work in his brain creating a false sense of closeness. It’s just fucking, he told himself. It doesn’t mean anything. Shawn would get bored and break it off soon; Lassiter was honestly a bit surprised that he hadn’t done so yet, particularly since Lassiter had just handed him a golden opportunity to do so by shutting him out of a case, no matter how justified he was in doing so. He absolutely was not going to dwell on the fact that instead of breaking up, they’d had a fight and then made up, just like people in a real relationship might. He could not allow himself to start thinking of this as more than it was, because he was the one who was going to get hurt, not Spencer, who would be back to chasing after the next girl who caught his eye.

He resigned himself to not getting anymore sleep and went for an early morning run instead, trying to burn off his anxiety, then showered and dressed and went into the station a little early, burying himself in work.

By the time O’Hara came in, he had already set up a white board in the conference room and outlined the major suspects in a robbery case they had been working on for the past couple of weeks, one he was determined to crack before the weekend. The two of them spent the morning going through witness statements and alibis, and after a few hours of being stuck in the same room and feeling hemmed in, Lassiter shed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves, preparing himself to work on this case through the day if necessary. He didn’t realize his mistake until he looked up to see Juliet staring at him with a look of wide-eyed delight.

“Carlton, is that a hickey?”

Lassiter swore, putting a hand against the offending spot, not that it would do him any good now to cover it. He had noticed it that morning when shaving, a bolt of lust going through him as he realized that Shawn had marked him, and hadn’t worried about anyone other than himself and Shawn seeing it, knowing that the collar of his shirt and his tie would cover it – but that only worked if he didn’t remove the tie and pop the top two buttons of his shirt.

“You really do have a girlfriend!” She sounded both surprised and approving, and he glared at her.

“I told you I was seeing someone,” he said stiffly.

She nodded. “You did, I know, but you never talk about it, so I wasn’t sure if you were still seeing her, and, well, honestly Carlton, I’ve never seen you with a hickey before!”

“Believe me, I’m regretting that you’re seeing it now. What are we, in eighth grade?”

She smiled, unfazed by his surliness, and sat down on the edge of the table next to him. “It must be pretty serious if you’re still dating her. I wish you would tell me about her.”

“There’s nothing to tell. It’s not that serious,” he said firmly. “Now, back to the robberies—“

“Where did you meet her?”

“O’Hara!” he snapped, frustrated.

“Come on, Carlton,” she wheedled, “just give me something, and I’ll leave you alone.”

He sighed in defeat, and tried to think up something harmless he could tell her that would placate her while misleading her, but what slipped out of his mouth was neither harmless nor misleading.

“What if I told you the person in question wasn’t a ‘her’?” he asked, and then immediately pressed a hand to his mouth in horror. What the hell was wrong with him?

“WHAT?” she gasped, her eyes like saucers.

He almost told her that he had just been joking, to teach her not to ask questions about his personal life, but he remembered telling Shawn that he wasn’t going to be ashamed of his private life, and if he were going to tell anyone that he was dating another man, it would be O’Hara, who was so hippy-dippy liberal that he sometimes wondered how she could have become a cop in the first place.

“You heard me,” he said shortly, and turned back to the whiteboard. “Now, if we’re done gossiping, can you read me the statement from the mailman again? Something about it is bothering me.”

“Carlton! You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and expect me to get right back to work!”

“Why not?” he asked grouchily. She merely crossed her arms and frowned at him with her cop face until he relented.

“Fine. Yes, the person I’ve been seeing is a man. No, I’m not going to tell you his name or anything about him. Yes, I’ve known for a long time that I was attracted to both women and men. No, this has nothing to do with why my marriage ended. There. Does that give the scandal sheet in your brain enough to live on for a while?”

Unexpectedly, she stood up and threw her arms around his neck. Hesitantly, he hugged her back.

“Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me,” she said softly. “I won’t bother you about it again, but I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything, anytime, okay?”

He felt like a weight he didn’t realize he had been carrying was lifted. “Yeah,” he said into her hair. “Thanks, O’Hara.”


	15. Chapter 15

Shawn was bored. He was at the office by himself, with no sign of any clients or cases to keep him occupied. Gus was at his other job, Lassiter was at work, and Henry…well, he had agreed to have dinner with Henry the next night. There was no reason to overdo the father/son time.

He pulled out his phone and called Gus.

"You need to meet me at the Psych office right away!" he said as soon as Gus picked up.

"Why? Do we have a case?"

Shawn considered lying, but knew that if he did, Gus would be pissed and his boredom problem would only temporarily be solved. "No," he admitted, "no case. But you need to come anyway. I'm thinking of rearranging the furniture, and I need your input."

"You're not going to rearrange the furniture," Gus said confidently.

"How do you know? I think the chop suey in here is bad."

There was a moment of silence from Gus's end for a moment, before he said "You mean feng shui, not chop suey. Maybe you need to go get some lunch."

"I do need some lunch," Shawn agreed, "and chop suey sounds pretty good. But I still need your help with the office. If you don't come, I'm going to move your desk out onto the sidewalk."

"That would require you to move my desk all by yourself," Gus said, "and that would mean actual physical labor on your part, so I'm not too worried."

Shawn made a face at the phone and hung up. He'd show Gus! After lunch, of course. Obviously he would need his strength if he was going to start moving desks around.

He walked to the tiny, hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant down at the corner for lunch, flipping idly through the newspaper as he ate in search of anything that he might potentially turn into a case, but nothing caught his eye, so he went back to the office and pushed half-heartedly at Gus's desk before deciding that it was too heavy to take out to the sidewalk by himself, so instead he took Gus's stapler, tape dispenser, appointment book, pens, and stress ball and deposited them on the bench outside of the office. That would show him.

Inside again, he pulled out his phone and texted Lassiter: "At Psych office alone. Dying of boredom. Save me!" which he hoped would appeal to Lassie's hero complex.

Unfortunately, the text he received back a few minutes later was a terse "Working", which made Shawn wonder if he should give up on the office and go down to the police station. He turned on the police scanner to listen for interesting crime scenes that Lassiter and Juliet might be investigating, but heard nothing aside from routine traffic stops and a report of vandalism at one of the high schools, which meant Lassie was probably doing paperwork or in a meeting or something equally dull.

So he gave into inertia and started playing Fruit Ninja on his phone, and became so absorbed that he was startled when the front door opened a little while later. He looked up to see Lassiter come in.

"Why are there office supplies on the bench out front?"

"I'm punishing Gus. Hey, I thought you were working," he said, coming around to sit on the edge of his desk.

"How could I work when I knew that you were in danger of imminent death?" Lassiter asked dryly as he came to stand in front of Shawn.

"My hero," Shawn said with a grin, grabbing Lassiter's tie to pull him in closer.

"Where's Guster?"

"Out pushing drugs on unsuspecting doctors," Shawn murmured, placing delicate kisses along Lassiter's jaw. "Do you have to go back to the station any time soon?"

"No. We wrapped the case we were working on. I'm on call if something comes up, but otherwise I have the afternoon off."

"Excellent," Shawn said happily. "I know exactly what we can spend the day doing."

"Oh?" Lassiter said, slipping a hand under Shawn's shirt and leaning forward to kiss him. "I have some ideas about that myself. What did you have in mind?"

Shawn kissed him back enthusiastically, then, much to Lassiter's surprise, pushed him away. "Laser tag! I have free passes. I was going to go with Gus, but he's being a workaholic marmoset, so I thought we could go."

"Laser tag?" Lassiter asked uncertainly.

"Don't tell me you've never been, Lass! You get to shoot things, but there's no paperwork or internal affairs investigation afterwards! You'll love it, I promise."

"Oookay. You really want to play laser tag with me?"

"Well, yeah. Gus is great at strategy, but he closes his eyes every time he shoots, so it's always easy to beat him. I was hoping you might provide a little more of a challenge. That way it will be more fun when I take you down."

Lassiter frowned indignantly. "What makes you think you could beat me? Don't forget Spencer, I hold the department record for marksmanship."

"Oh believe me, I know. It's hot," Shawn said appreciatively. "But I hold the Santa Barbara County Laser Tag Championship Award for players over the age of 21. So I guess we'll see who's the best."

"I guess we will," Lassiter agreed, his competitive streak piquing his interest in the game.

"I still can't believe that you've never told me that you can shoot like that," Lassiter said. He looked a little shellshocked.

They were walking back into the Psych office, where Shawn had asked Lassiter to bring him so that he could pick up his bike. Shawn had won at laser tag of course, mostly because Lassiter had been expecting him to goof around during the game like he did with so many other things, not realizing that Shawn was deadly serious when it came to shooting people with harmless lights. Even so, Lassiter had done what Shawn had hoped and provided him more of a challenge than Gus usually did, and more importantly, Lassiter had had fun. It was an element sorely lacking in Lassie's life, Shawn felt.

"You wouldn't have believed me without proof," Shawn pointed out.

"Yeah, but…whatever. Next time, Spencer, I'll know what to expect, and I'll kick your ass."

"Admit it, you think it's hot that I'm that good with a gun."

"It was a plastic gun, not a real one, so I admit nothing."

"I'm just as good with the real thing," Shawn assured him.

"I'll have to see it to believe it."

"I'd say we should go to the gun range one day, but I'm afraid you would molest me right there in the building while I was wearing the ugly glasses and earmuffs, because you would find me soooo irresistible."

"Somehow, I think I'd be able to restrain myself," Lassiter said, rolling his eyes.

"I doubt it," Shawn sniffed, "but on the other hand…" he pushed Lassiter against the wall and pressed right up against him, right where he wanted to be, "maybe I'm the one who would get so turned on that I wouldn't be able to keep my hands to myself."

"Nothing new about that," Lassiter muttered, but pulled Shawn in for a kiss, his hands trailing down Shawn's back to his ass, making Shawn moan into his mouth.

Distantly, behind him, he heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by the clatter of something falling to the floor and a gasp. Dread curling into his chest, he lifted his head to see Gus standing there, his mouth hanging open in shock.

"Shawn? Shawn! What the hell are you doing?!"

"I…" for quite possibly the first time in his life, Shawn was at a loss for words. "Gus, I…"

Gus turned and walked back into the lobby, pacing back and forth. Shawn followed, after giving a quick, despairing look in Lassiter's direction. Lassiter sank down onto the edge of Gus's desk, feeling unable to move. Shawn looked more terrified now than he ever had staring down the barrel of some psycho's gun.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Gus asked, and Lassiter tensed, because if Shawn did brush this off as a joke, he thought he might walk out and not come back.

"Joke? I…no. No joke, Gus. No one's wearing a funny hat or a fake nose or anything. I mean, what would be the punchline?"

"Then what is it, Shawn? Are you and Lassiter…are you…I thought you liked girls, Shawn! Have you been lying to me about that all this time?"

"No! I love girls! They're all soft and they smell good and they have pretty hair! What's not to like? I just…sometimes, I like guys too. It's not a big deal, Gus."

"Not a big deal?! I thought we were best friends, Shawn! Best. Friends. I didn't think we had secrets like that from each other. I know you lie to everyone else, but I didn't think you lied to me."

"I'm sorry, Gus. Just let me explain, okay?" Shawn sounded helpless. Lassiter squeezed his hands into fists, forcing himself not to jump into the middle of things.

Gus shook his head. "I can't with you right now, Shawn," he said, his voice cracking with emotion, and he turned and walked out the front door.

Shawn didn't try to go after him; he slumped against the wall, not looking at Lassiter. After a few minutes, Lassiter got up and went out to him. Shawn shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes.

"That could have gone better," he said weakly.

"Give him some time to get used to the idea. It's going to be okay, Shawn. He's just upset because it came as a shock."

"Since when are you such an optimist?"

"Since when are you not?" Lassiter countered. "Come on, let's go to my place. We can order something to eat from that Thai restaurant near my house that you like, and I'll even let you choose what movie we watch."

"Nah," Shawn said, backing away from Lassiter and crossing his arms in front of his chest. "I think I want to be alone right now."

"Shawn," Lassiter started to say, but Shawn shook his head.

"I'm fine, Lassie, I'm just not going to be any fun tonight. I'll call you later."

"Fine," Lassiter said, easing towards the door, a hollow feeling in his chest. He paused in the doorway, turning to see Shawn sitting on the edge of Gus's desk, staring at the phone in his hand.

"He'll get over it, Shawn. He was just surprised."

"Yeah," Shawn said. "Later, Lassie."

Not wanting to go home alone and brood, Lassiter went back to the station to work for a few more hours. He wondered if this was it, if Guster finding out was the thing that would send Shawn fleeing away from this weird, unstable relationship.

He got his answer later that night when he arrived home and found Shawn sitting on his front steps.

"Hi," he said, surprised. "I didn't think I would see you tonight."

Shawn stood up, and without saying a word, pulled Lassiter into a hard, desperate kiss.

After a minute, Lassiter broke away. "Shawn, what are you...?"

"Nope," Shawn said flatly, "No discussing this tonight. Just...help me take my mind off of it, okay?"

Lassiter thought about refusing, at least until after they had actually talked about what had happened and what it might mean for the future, but he was reminded of the night of the Yang case, when Shawn had come to him and asked something similar. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, "I can do that."

When Lassiter woke up the next morning, he was surprised to find that Shawn was still in bed with him, curled up against him with an outstretched hand on Lassiter's chest. He had been quieter than normal the night before, and once in the middle of the night Lassiter had awoken to find Shawn checking his phone for any sign of a message, then dropping it onto the floor and burying his face against the pillow in resignation.

It made him angry with Guster, to see Shawn so upset over this, but then he would remember that it was all Shawn's fault for keeping secrets, even if Lassiter could understand the insecurity and fear that led to Shawn keeping this particular secret.

Now, he sighed in his sleep and squirmed closer to Lassiter, who felt an odd little stutter in his heart at having Shawn, who always, always disappeared in the middle of the night, still in his bed as the first rays of daylight started to creep into the room. Hesitantly, not wanting to wake him, he shifted even closer to Shawn, in what Lassiter absolutely refused to think of as snuggling. He closed his eyes and started drifting back into sleep, drinking in Shawn's warmth.

His phone rang.

"Shit," he swore, reaching for it on the nightstand, at the same time that Shawn mumbled "Is that mine? Is it…"

"No," Lassiter said, and felt Shawn sink back down into the bed.

There had been an early morning robbery at an all-night diner, and after telling the officer on duty that he was on his way, Lassiter sighed and sat up.

"Stay as long as you want," he told Shawn, "just be sure to lock up when you leave."

He half-expected Shawn to get out of bed as well, follow him to the crime scene, insist that "the spirits" had timed it so that he would be there to hear the call come in and that it was his destiny to solve the case, but Shawn remained a lump under the blankets, not asleep anymore but making no move to get up.

He started to walk away to get dressed, but paused and turned back to the bed. "You can stay," he said again, "but don't touch any of my guns. Or my laptop. And keep out of my desk. And if you finish off the peanut butter, it will be your responsibility to buy me more."

"So it's cool if I take down that awesome Civil War sword and play pirate with it?"

"No! No touching any weaponry. Got it, Spencer?"

"Yeah, Lassie," Shawn said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I understand."

Still, he made no move to get out of the bed, or ask questions about where Lassiter was going. It was unnerving to have Spencer display a complete lack of curiosity about the case.

After he was dressed, Lassiter came and stood by the bed again. He didn't think Shawn was actually asleep, but he was doing a good job of feigning it, lying still and quiet. He bit back the instinct to say something comforting about how Guster was sure to contact him today; the man was made of marshmallow, he wouldn't hold out on Shawn for long. But Shawn knew Guster far better than Lassiter did, so he had to know this as well. It was apparently of little enough consolation to him at the moment, judging from how quiet, how un-Shawnlike, he had been since the day before. Lassiter had always assumed that not having Spencer run off at the mouth constantly would be a relief, but he found that he didn't like it very much; without his trademark brashness, Shawn seemed deflated somehow. It made Lassiter feel helpless, and wasn't that a terrifying realization, to know that Shawn's happiness mattered so much to him?

He shook his head, and without saying anything else to Shawn, left for his crime scene.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you have left kudos and comments over the past year. I hope 2014 brings amazing things for you all.

Taking a deep breath, Lassiter knocked on the door. This was probably a huge mistake, but he didn't know what else to do. He had thought about Shawn all morning, even throughout the crime scene investigation of the diner robbery. They already had a suspect in custody – an ex-employee with a grudge – so it wasn’t as if the case had been especially challenging, but it was still unlike him to be distracted during an investigation. Even McNabb had noticed, asking him if he was coming down with something when he let O’Hara take the lead in questioning the suspect.

Clearly, this situation could not stand. Plus, he felt vaguely guilty over the part he played in causing the friction between Spencer and Guster, even though he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Thinking of Shawn, listless and huddled under blankets that morning, made him itch to fix the problem, even knowing that his involvement would possibly make things worse.

Guster frowned when he opened the door and saw Lassiter standing there. "What are you doing here?"

"I think you know what I’m doing here. Can I come in for a minute?"

Gus hesitated for the briefest moment before stepping aside to allow him into the apartment. He leaned against the back of the sofa, watching Lassiter warily, his arms folded across his chest.

"Look," Lassiter said awkwardly, "I know it's none of my business, but you need to talk to Shawn."

"You’re right,” Gus said, “it is none of your business. Anyway, he lied to me for twenty years! Maybe I don't feel like talking yet."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Lassiter snapped. "He didn't lie to you, he just withheld certain information."

Gus raised an eyebrow. "Since when are you so undiscriminating about the truth?"

"He loves women. He never lied about that. You need to talk to him so that he can tell you all this for himself."

"He's had plenty of time to talk. You may have noticed, he hardly ever shuts up. But during all the time that we spent together talking about girls and playing wingman for each other when we tried to pick up women, he couldn't find time to say that he was also into guys? And maybe after that he could have mentioned that he was sleeping with the dude who hassles us every time we try to solve a case."

Reminding himself that he had come here with the intention of being the mature adult of the group, Lassiter resolved to stay calm, even though he wanted to shout that Guster was being an idiot. "Which one are you angrier about, that he never told you he was interested in guys, or that he's with me?"

"It's a toss-up," Gus said frankly. "It doesn't make any sense to me, you two being together, not when you've spent the last three years acting like you can barely stand to be in the same room with him. Why are you even here, anyway?"

Scowling, Lassiter said, "I'm not interested in watching him mope around over something that would be solved if you would just talk to him for a minute. He's miserable. He didn't even pester me to let him go to a crime scene this morning, that's how upset he is over this."

He looked up to find that Gus was watching with him the kind of narrow-eyed focus that he usually only saw from Shawn. "Holy crap," Gus breathed out, as awareness dawned on his face, "you actually care about him, don't you?"

"Don't change the subject, Guster," he said gruffly, ignoring the way his heart beat a little faster at Gus's assertion. "This is about you and Shawn, not me and Shawn."

"You're even calling him Shawn now!" Gus said, his voice rising. "You're totally in love with him!"

"I will shoot you," Lassiter warned.

"No you won't, because that would upset your BOYFRIEND whom you LOVE," Gus said, sounding torn between amusement and horror, though he did edge back a couple of steps when Lassiter's hand hovered near his holster, a natural reaction when he was feeling threatened by something. Something like crazy, wrong-headed assumptions from amateur detective civilians who thought they knew everything.

"I don't...we're not..." Lassiter gave up. "Look, just talk to him, okay?

"Fine," Gus relented, "but not because you told me to. I was going to talk to him anyway. I'm mad because he lied to me for so long, but Shawn's my family."

"Good," Lassiter said, moving to the door, eager for this encounter to be over, "then I guess I'll see you later."

He turned to leave, but Gus stopped him, all traces of amusement gone from his voice. "Lassiter? Like I said, Shawn is family. If you hurt him...just keep in mind that I have access to all kinds of drugs, and I know how to use them."

Lassiter blinked in disbelief. "Are you...did you just threaten me, Guster?"

Gus gave him an angelic look. "Of course not, Detective. I would never threaten an officer of the law. I was just telling you a little something about myself, since you're dating my best friend and all."

"Right," Lassiter said, and left before either one of them could say anything else ridiculous.

**

"What's wrong kid?" Henry asked. "You've barely eaten any of your dinner."

Shawn eyed him warily. He didn't want to talk about this with his dad — talking about his love life was something he typically only did with Gus — but in this case, talking to Gus wasn't an option. He was better at figuring things out when he could talk them through, and aside from Lassiter, Henry was the only person around who knew that he was hetero-flexible, and he had seemed like he was trying to be supportive about it, in his clumsy, Henry-like way. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to try and get some advice, assuming the two of them could get through a conversation of this sort without either of them combusting in embarrassment.

"Gus and I had a fight," he admitted.

"Oh?" Henry asked, curious but unconcerned, "what about?"

Shawn looked down at his plate, pushing his green beans around with his fork. "He uh, he found out about, you know..." he trailed off, squirming uncomfortably.

"Spit it out, Shawn!" Henry demanded impatiently.

"Never mind. It's nothing," Shawn said, and experimentally bit into one of the green beans. It tasted green. He thought about telling Henry that if he wanted Shawn to spill his secrets, he was going to have to bribe him with less healthy food.

Henry heaved a sigh that Shawn was very familiar with, one that somehow managed to express the vast amounts of annoyance Shawn caused just by being himself. Most of the time he considered generating that sigh to be a win, a sign that he had successfully gotten under Henry's skin, but tonight he couldn't even appreciate it.

Taking a deep breath, Shawn tried again. "Gus, he um, he caught me. With the guy I told you about. He was pretty mad."

"Oh!" Henry was the one staring down at his plate now, his face pink with chagrin. "Wait a minute, Shawn, what do you mean, 'caught you'? Were you doing something in public that you shouldn't have been? Because I swear to God –"

"Jeez, dad!" Shawn yelped, horrified by what Henry was implying, "We were kissing. In the Psych office. I don't know what you were picturing, but I need for you to stop it right now."

"Oh. Oh. Okay," Henry said settling back down, "Gus was just surprised, I'm sure. You just need to talk to him, kid. He'll get over it."

"That's hard to do when he refuses to talk to me," Shawn replied.

"Gus will come around," Henry said. "This is just like that time when you two were kids and he was mad at you because you always made him be the girl when you played Indiana Jones."

Shawn's brow wrinkled in confusion. "This is nothing like that. And anyway, Gus always made such a good Willie; he can scream just like Kate Capshaw."

"So," Henry said, as he went back to intently studying his mashed potatoes, "are you and this guy serious?"

"What? No," Shawn scoffed, "we're just, you know, hanging out. It's not a big deal."

"What's this guy's name? Does Gus know him?"

Regretting that he had brought the subject up at all, Shawn shrugged noncomittally. "Yeah, Gus know him. I'm not telling you who it is though, Dad. It's not serious enough for that."

"Wait," Henry said, focusing his attention away from his food and on to Shawn, "does that mean that I know him?"

"Uh, NO," Shawn said, looking away, "it just means that I don't see why I should start oversharing with you now. You've never been particularly interested in the girls I've dated."

"So what am I supposed to call him? Should I refer to him as your boyfriend?" Henry's mouth puckered up sourly as he said the word, as if he had just bitten into a lemon.

"God, no!" Shawn yelped, wishing that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. "You don't need to call him anything, because we're not talking about this anymore. If an emergency situation arises in which you absolutely have to refer to him, you can call him Val."

"As in Kilmer?" Henry asked, rolling his eyes.

"That's right. They share a similar icy blue gaze. Huh. I might have a type."

He felt the phone in his pocket vibrate and he pulled it out to see who was calling.

"It's a text from Gus," he told Henry, and he wasn’t able to keep the relief out of his voice. "He wants to get together and talk tomorrow."

"See, I told you that he would come around," Henry said, as Shawn texted Gus back that he would meet him anytime, anywhere, and added lots of exclamation points for emphasis.

After he left Henry’s house, he went by Lassiter’s place, but Lassie wasn’t home. Figuring he must be at the police station, he decided to drop by. He was too antsy to be on his own, too nervous about how things might go with Gus the next day.

At the station he found Buzz, who pointed him towards the interrogation rooms when he asked if Lassiter was around. “He’s questioning a suspect in an assault, but he should be wrapping it up soon. What’s up, Shawn?” he lowered his voice, his forehead furrowed in concern. “Did you have a vision?”

“Just a little one. The spirit of Burt Reynolds came to me to warn Lassie about the dangers of overgrooming his chest hair.”

“Oh,” Buzz said, nodding understandingly before frowning in confusion. “Wait, isn’t Burt Reynolds alive? And does Lassiter really…?”

Shawn nodded solemnly. “I have to talk to him before it’s too late. Later, buddy.”

He wandered down to the observation room and sat down to watch Lassiter at work. Buzz was right that he was almost done; he was standing, leaning across the table quietly detailing all of the evidence he had collected against the suspect, who was staring down at the floor like he wished that it would swallow him whole.

It was rare that he got to observe Lassie like this, completely unaware that he was being watched. Lassiter was in full Head Detective mode, and the sense of authority he was projecting gave Shawn a little frisson of pleasure, along with an odd little feeling of satisfaction at knowing how good Lassie could be at his job; he hadn’t made it to the top of the detective squad based on his winning personality, after all.

Being in the observation room also gave him a few minutes to just stare and drink in his appreciation of broad shoulders and long legs and, from this vantage point, Lassie’s ass, which was, in his opinion, most definitely worth spending some time appreciating.

He blinked and shook himself out of his reverie as Lassiter turned and opened the door between the two rooms, stopping when he caught sight of Shawn.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had a vision of you being all hot and manly and commanding and I had to come down and see if it was true,” Shawn said blithely.

Lassiter glared at him. “I’m busy, Spencer.”

“No you’re not. You just finished decimating that guy. You deserve a break today, Lassie!”

Lassiter hesitated. “I was about to grab a cup of coffee, but I am going to be here a few more hours, and we definitely have no need for a fake psychic tonight.”

“If I see any fake psychics running around, I’ll let them know,” Shawn said. “In the meantime, would you mind if I joined you for some terrible police station coffee and maybe a Watchamacallit from the vending machine? Dad is on some kind of healthy eating kick, so all he had for dessert was fruit.”

“You love fruit. You practically live off of pineapples as it is.”

“Shyeah, but not for dessert. Dessert should be decadent.”

“Like vending machine candy bars?” Lassiter asked dryly.

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, okay, let me get this guy back to a holding cell and I’ll meet you in the breakroom.”

When Lassiter made it to the breakroom, he found Shawn chatting with a couple of patrol officers, “psychically” reading the rookie. Shawn’s distraction, and the fact that this wasn’t about a case, gave him the rare opportunity to stand back and watch the way Shawn’s eyes darted across the rookie’s features as he made his psychic pronouncements. Maybe it was a result of spending so much time with Shawn recently and getting to know him better, but for the first time he could see how blatantly Shawn was reading the physical and vocal cues the rookie was giving him to “divine” his background, relationship status, and career goals. There was nothing mystical at work; it was just an excellent cold reading from a highly skilled profiler, masked in a flurry of nonsense and obscure pop culture references.

Interesting. He filed the observation away for later as Shawn turned to grin at him. “Sorry Lassie, I was just introducing myself to the new guy. Catalano, right?”

“Uh, actually it’s Matthison, sir,” the rookie said nervously.

“Don’t call him ‘sir’,” Lassiter, ordered. “In fact, don’t talk to him at all.”

The rookie paled. “Yes sir…Detective…sir.”

His partner took pity on him. “Come on Matthison, we need to get to work. Good night, Detective Lassiter, Spencer,” she said, nodding at them both as she led her hapless charge away.

That left Lassiter alone with Shawn, who handed him a Snickers bar. “It’s on me,” he said, “even though I’m mad that you won’t let the rookie call me ‘sir’. What’s up with that Lassie? I was finally getting the respect that I deserve around here!”

“You get exactly as much respect as you deserve every time we hire you for a case,” Lassiter told him as he poured them each a cup of coffee. “I don’t need the rookies treating you like you're part of the chain of command.”

“I get it,” Shawn said as he took his coffee and plopped down on one of the cheap plastic chairs. “You want to be the only one around here called ‘sir’. If it’s that important to you Lassie, I’ll call you that from now on.”

“You?” Lassiter scoffed. "You can't even bring yourself to call me by my actual name! It's not that difficult: Carlton," he said pronouncing it slowly and loudly.

"I can use your name!" Shawn protested. "I just...choose not to."

"Prove it."

"I will! Car..." Shawn made a face like he was tasting something bad. "Carllll..."

Lassiter sighed. "Don't strain yourself, Spencer."

Shawn squinched his eyes closed and tried again. "Carly?"

"No!"

"I'm sorry, I can't do it. It's like calling Gus 'Burton'. I don't know what was up with either of your parents. It's like they wanted to raise nerdy, outcast sons. Luckily for you, you have a cool last name to balance things out."

"A last name that you've shortened to make me sound like I'm your pet," Lassiter pointed out.

Shawn grinned. "Oh, I like the sound of that. Can we buy you a leash and a collar?"

In response to that, Lassiter merely glared at him.

"That's not a 'no'," Shawn told him.

"NO," Lassiter said firmly. "Besides, if anyone here needs a leash, it's you."

"Kinky. I'll think about it."

“Not here,” Lassiter said, looking around the breakroom uncomfortably; they were still alone, but that could change at any time.

“Okay,” Shawn said agreeably. “I’ll think about it somewhere else. Somewhere where I don’t have to wear pants.”

With some difficulty, Lassiter pushed the thought of that away and changed the subject. “You seem like you’re in a better mood tonight. Did you talk to Guster?”

“We’re meeting tomorrow.” Shawn fiddled with the discarded candy bar wrapper in front of him, tearing it into tiny pieces, and looked down at the table unseeingly, and just like that Lassiter could see the façade of glibness that he had been wearing vanish. “What if he says that he doesn’t want to be friends anymore?”

Lassiter reached over and covered Shawn’s hands with one of his, stopping him from wreaking any more destruction on the candy bar wrapper. “Shawn, that’s not going to happen. You just —”

“Gentlemen! I didn’t expect to see the two of you in here.” Chief Vick said as she walked through the door. Lassiter hastily jerked his hand away and tried to cover his surprise. She didn’t appear to notice, continuing on to the coffee pot as she spoke. “Good work on wrapping up that assault case so quickly, Detective. Mr. Spencer, I wasn’t aware that we were using you on a case right now.”

“I had a vision,” Shawn announced, as he stood up and tossed the wrapper and his empty coffee cup into the trash, “that there was an unsolvable case that needed my assistance tonight, but when I got here, Carly had already solved it. I think the spirits were confused by the _One Tree Hill_ marathon I watched earlier today. Chad Michael Murray is a known psychic disturbance.”

“Right,” Chief Vick said, as if what Shawn said made any kind of sense whatsoever. “Well then, you should probably leave Detective Lassiter in peace and let him get back to work.”

“Right-o Chief!” Shawn said as she left with her coffee.

“Go home, Spencer,” Lassiter said, as he also stood up.

“Yes sir!” Shawn said smartly, all traces of the vulnerability he had displayed earlier gone. Lassiter felt like he could still see it though, right under the surface. Maybe he should tell Shawn that he had been to see Guster, but he felt uncomfortable admitting that he had interfered, and besides, that had been between himself and Guster.

“Shawn, just be honest with Guster tomorrow. It will all work out.”

“Yeah,” Shawn said uncertainly. “You’re probably right.”


	17. Chapter 17

They agreed to meet at the petting zoo. Gus would never yell at him around fuzzy ducklings and cuddly bunnies, Shawn reasoned, and tiny adorable animals would help de-stress the situation.

"So," Gus said, "how long have you and Lassiter..." he trailed off uncertainly. He already had a golden floppy-eared rabbit cradled in his arms, his hand stroking down its back soothingly.

"Um, kind of on and off since the Griffin thing. More on than off right now," Shawn admitted, reaching over to scratch Gus's bunny on the head.

"Shawn! That was months ago! I can't believe you! Is it, you know, serious?"

"No!" Shawn said quickly. "I mean, it's me, Gus. When have you ever known me to be serious over someone I'm sleeping with?"

A woman standing nearby with two toddler-aged children hastily ushered her kids away from the rabbits, glaring at Shawn and Gus as she went.

"Never," Gus conceded, "but I've also never known you to sleep with the same person for months. That's a relationship, Shawn."

"Take that back!" Shawn demanded, horrified. "It's just sex! And, you know, sometimes we hang out together, and eat together and stuff, but that's just so it will be easier for us to have sex whenever we feel like it!"

Gus was giving him a look that suggested that he thought Shawn was full of crap. Shawn had never been able to stand up to that look. He picked up a fluffy gray bunny and hugged it close to his heart, but Gus's expression didn't change.

"Maaaybe," he said, "someone who didn't know what a trainwreck a relationship between me and Lassiter would be might use that word, but you and I both know better. It would be like the time the Hindenburg crashed into the Titanic!"

"That never happened."

"Like the time the volcano erupted in Los Angeles and Tommy Lee Jones had to save all those people?"

"That was a movie, Shawn."

"Are you questioning the heroism of TLJ?"

"Don't make this about Tommy Lee Jones, Shawn! We were talking about you and Lassiter and your relationship." He enunciated the final word slowly and loudly, making Shawn cringe and startling a white bunny near Gus's feet.

"That's a stupid word," he muttered. "Just because we sleep together and don't date other people and he hasn't arrested me for breaking into his place yet doesn't mean we're in a...one of those things."

"Uh huh," Gus said skeptically. "Does he know that?"

"Lassie knows the score. Hey, let's go check out the baby goats."

"You're not going to distract me with goats, Shawn! What are you going to do when this whole thing implodes, like it inevitably will, and Lassiter ends up hating you way more than he ever did before? How are we going to work with the police department when that happens?"

Shawn realized he was squeezing the bunny in his arms too tightly when it grunted in protest, and he hastily set it down. "That's not going to happen, Gus. Lassie and I agreed that this wouldn't interfere with our work, and that includes when it's, you know, over."

"Yeah, because Lassiter's known for being so easygoing, especially when it comes to you."

"At least half of his grumpiness before was because of all that sexual repression. Once we've worked through that, he'll be all sunshine and gumdrops. Hey, look, tiny horsies!"

"Those are Shetland ponies, Shawn, not horses." He reached over and started petting one of the ponies. "Look, maybe I should have figured it out about you and Lassiter. You do like to tease him all the time, and he's always grabbing you, and there was a weird energy in the room that time you blindfolded him that I do not want to think about. I can even understand why you didn't tell me what was going on between the two of you, because we work with him, and he's weird, and this whole thing is weird. But Shawn...how come you never told me that you, you know, liked guys?"

Shawn dropped onto a nearby bench and sighed. "Dude, I don't know. At first it was because I thought it was just, I don't know, a phase or something. I mean, I was like fourteen? EVERYTHING made me horny. But I realized that you never talked about guys the way I was thinking about them, and...I thought I'd get over it. But I didn't." He frowned down at his shoes, and distractedly patted the head of the pony that came over and started nudging at his shoulder, begging for food.

Gus sat down on the bench next to him and pulled a treat out of a bag he had purchased at the front gate to feed to the pony. "Okay, I get that, I do. But what about later, when you knew it wasn't a phase?"

Shawn shifted uncomfortably, still unable to look up at Gus. He wanted desperately to deflect the conversation with a joke, but he knew he needed to do what Lassie had said and be honest. "I didn't really know, like know for sure, until after I was out on my own and had the chance to uh, experiment some. And you were in college, and we didn't see each other that much, and...I don't know. When I saw you, I just wanted us to be able to hang out and have fun, not have heavy conversations. You kept stuff from me too! You didn't tell me about Mira, or Blackapella."

"That's not the same, Shawn! Well," he relented, "maybe Mira is kind of the same. But I didn't tell you about that because it was a dumb mistake, not because it was a part of who I am. And you've been back in Santa Barbara for a long time, we've been working together for more than three years now, and you still never told me. Did you think I would..." he hesitated, apparently unsure of what he wanted to say, "did you think I wouldn't want to be friends anymore if I knew?"

"No! I mean, I don't know," Shawn said miserably. "I knew you'd be mad that I never told you, and the longer you keep a secret, the harder it is to tell it. I guess that after all these years I thought it was easier to not tell you. I mean, it's not like it's been any hardship for me to chase after pretty girls. There haven't really been any guys that I had more than a passing interest in, and I thought maybe it was something I could just keep in the past."

"Until now." Gus said. "Until Lassiter." He stood up. "Let's go down to the pond to visit the ducklings."

Shawn followed him silently, unsure of how to proceed. Gus had stopped at the edge of the pond where the ducks lived and had pulled out his phone to take a picture of baby ducklings trailing their mother.

"So," Gus said, not looking at him, "Lassiter? Really? Because dude, I think you can do better. I could set you up with Ted, you know, the guy two offices down from mine? He's handsome, and he collects vintage Mickey Mouse memorabilia. I think you two might hit it off."

So relieved was he to hear Gus's tacit approval, Shawn practically sagged in relief. However, that did not mean that any attempts to set him up with Mickey Mouse collecting pharmaceutical reps should be encouraged.

"I've seen that guy's office, Gus. That's not a collection, that's an obsession. A scary one. I've considered calling the FBI about him, to see if he’s on some kind of watch list. Besides, I like Lassie."

Gus gave him a skeptical look. "What could you possibly like about him?"

"I like it when he touches me in my bathing suit area," Shawn said solemnly.

"SHAWN!" Gus yelled in horror, covering his ears, and Shawn grinned, overjoyed to be back on familiar ground with his best friend. Or at least that was what he thought, until Gus suddenly pushed him, hard enough to make him fall on his butt.

"Dude!" Shawn protested, standing up and rubbing the injured area.

"That's for keeping secrets, and for making me feel like a giant homophobe because I was freaked out by seeing your tongue down Lassiter's throat. I'm not homophobic, Shawn! I was an usher in my cousin Marty's wedding to that rodeo clown! I think Neil Patrick Harris is a national treasure! I voted for marriage equality, I saw _In & Out_ eight times, and I wanted Willow and Tara to be together forever!"

"I don't know who those ladies are," Shawn said, "but they sound hot, and I hope they're still happy together."

"Shut up, Shawn," Gus muttered.

"Gus, I know you're down with people of all races, colors, creeds, orientations, religions, and home planets. This was never about that. It was about me feeling weird about it after it had been a secret for so long, and after we had spent so many years talking about girls, and knowing you would be mad that I had kept if from you."

"So, that time you asked me to the prom...?"

"I believe that if you had accepted, we would now be happily married and living on a pineapple plantation in Maui."

Gus shook his head. "Shawn, please. If we were married, I would have killed you years ago. Any other secrets you're keeping from me?"

Shawn sighed heavily. "I never wanted to tell you this, but I'm the one who ate the Chunky Monkey ice cream you had in the freezer at the office."

"That wasn't a secret."

"Oh. Well, then I guess the sleeping with Lassiter thing is all I have to confess to today."

“Are you going to explain to me why all of my office supplies were on the bench outside of the office the other day?”

Shawn considered this question briefly before shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

"All right, then," Gus said. "Which animal should we visit next?"

"Llamas?" Shawn suggested, still dusting off his jeans.

Gus stood as well, scowling. "You know I don't like llamas, Shawn! Not since we were eleven, and the one at Amy Farris's birthday party spit on me!"

"That's was his way of showing affection, Gus. It meant he considered you a part of his family. It was a compliment!"

"I don't need compliments that include llama saliva," Gus muttered.

“So,” Shawn said, “we’re still on for the Rumble next weekend, right?”

“You know that’s right,” Gus said enthusiastically. Shawn grinned and held out his fist, and without hesitation, Gus bumped it.

**

“I told you that you would like it,” Shawn said. Lassiter couldn’t see his face, but even though he was breathless, he sounded smug. He couldn’t really fault Shawn for his smugness at the moment though.

“Yeah,” he said, his own voice raspy and uneven, his thoughts scattered like a box of dropped marbles. He felt Shawn get off of him, off of the bed, to discard his condom, he assumed, but didn’t open his eyes, not even when he returned a minute later with a damp washcloth to clean them both up with.

He shivered a little, ostensibly at the touch of the washcloth, but more so at the memory of Shawn pushing into him, relentlessly and deliberately, the same way he had pushed his way into first Lassiter’s work, and then his life, his voice hoarse with lust as he had babbled that this was better than John Hughes movies or pineapple Lifesavers or _Knight Rider_ marathons, until finally he had been reduced to hissing “fuck, fuck, fuck, so fucking good, Lassie,” against Lassiter’s ear, his hand hot and slick with lube, stroking Lassiter’s cock, the sensation so overwhelming when combined with the feeling of Shawn inside him that Lassiter was fairly certain that he had passed out for a few seconds when he came.

If someone had told him a year ago that he would ever have made himself so vulnerable to Shawn Spencer, he would have punched them. No, shot them. Maybe punched and then shot them. It was why they hadn’t done this before, the thought of giving away another piece of himself to Shawn more than he could handle, when Shawn had already taken over so much of his life. He wasn’t even entirely certain why that had changed, but maybe it had something to do with how Shawn had been the vulnerable one for a change in the situation with Gus. And now, despite the fact that he was a little sore and a lot wiped out, he couldn’t deny that it had felt staggeringly good.

“Hey, are you okay?” Shawn asked, and now he sounded worried. “You did like that, right? I mean, it felt like you did, I just assumed…”

Lassiter stopped him from talking by finally opening his eyes, pulling him in for a long kiss, sloppy and uncoordinated because his muscles still felt like they were on vacation. “I liked it,” he assured Shawn. “I liked it a lot.”

Shawn went back to being smug. “Yeah you did.”

Lassiter would have rolled his eyes, but as boneless and content as he felt, even that would have taken too much effort.

Earlier that evening, Shawn had come to Lassiter’s apartment, the scared, worried look he had worn the last time Lassiter had seen him gone.

“Did you and Guster work everything out?”

Shawn nodded. “Yeah. I mean, he thinks I’m totally nuts to be sleeping with you, and I don’t know, it feels kind of weird, to know that he knows, but we made it right.”

“So, that’s it?” Lassiter asked. “All the worry and drama and years of secrets, and you two worked it out after one day?”

Shawn shrugged. “Pretty much. The petting zoo is a magical place, Lassie.”

“Apparently,” Lassiter said dryly.

“So,” Shawn said, “do you have any plans for tonight? Gus had promised his parents that he would come over for dinner, so now I’m bored.”

“You can’t get through one evening by yourself?” Lassiter asked trying to hide the fact that he was secretly pleased to see Shawn.

“Sure, I CAN, but why would I want to? Anyway, you’re just cleaning your guns, so it’s not like I’m interrupting anything important.”

“How did you know…?” Lassiter started to ask, before biting his tongue to stop the question from escaping. Shawn just smirked at him, raising a hand to his head.

“The spirits are always interested in what you’re doing, Lassie.”

Lassiter gave him a look, one that suggested that Shawn wasn’t going to get anywhere by playing the psychic card.

“Or,” Shawn relented, “maybe I could smell the gun oil as soon as I walked in. You have a little on your hands, too. I was kind of hoping you could oil my gun instead,” he said with a suggestive leer.

“Was that supposed to be sexy?” Lassiter asked. “Because I hate to break it to you, but…”

“Please, I know the gun talk gets you hot, Lassie,” Shawn said, and somehow he was suddenly right up against Lassiter, his fingers curling into Lassiter’s hips to pull him closer, “which is good, because I thought we might try something a little different tonight.”

Somehow, Shawn’s proximity made Lassiter’s thinking go all fuzzy. “Different?” he asked, and his mouth went dry as Shawn gave him a look that could only be described as completely filthy.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, as he started to pull the buttons of Lassiter’s shirt open, “but don’t worry. I promise, you’ll love it.”

Now, Shawn snuggled – there was no other word for it – in close and yawned. “I guess I should go. Maybe a little nap first.”

Lassiter brushed a hand across Shawn’s back. “You don’t have to leave, you know. I don’t mind if you stay,” he said, then immediately wished he could take back the words, afraid that Shawn would think the suggestion sounded too serious, too much like what people in a real relationship would do. Yeah, he had stayed over once before, but that had been due to his being worried about getting back into Gus’s good graces. Staying again so soon, the second night for no good reason, seemed like something that might trigger Shawn’s commitment-phobia.

But Shawn just pushed in closer, if that was at all possible, and murmured, “That might be nice. We could totally do it again before you go to work.”

“Do you ever think about anything else?”

“I think about lots of things. Pineapples, whether or not the Breakfast Club ever spoke to each other again, that blue skirt Jules wears sometimes – you know the one I mean – how Billy Zane’s eyes seem to look right into my soul – “

“No Billy Zane while you’re in bed with me,” Lassiter said firmly.

“Jealous?”

“No. I just don’t think he’s a very good actor.”

Shawn gasped in outrage. “That’s blasphemy, Lassie! And I have the DVDs to prove it. A double feature of _Posse_ and _Sniper_ will—” he paused to yawn again “—show you the error of your ways.”

“Go to sleep, Spencer,” Lassiter said, and as he started to drift off himself, it occurred to him that this entire experiment had been a complete failure; he was supposed to be sick of Shawn by now, and Shawn was supposed to be bored and ready to move on. Instead, Shawn was spending the night and Lassiter was experiencing something that he was scared to acknowledge felt a lot like happiness.


	18. Chapter 18

Lassiter had several different reasons for sending Stewart Gimley to the Psych office for help. To begin with, Stewart was obviously a kook, but he seemed harmless. Shawn would get a kick out of talking to someone who thought he was a werewolf, and Gus would appreciate someone willing to pay their fee (“Do you think they’ll be able to help me?” Stewart had asked when Lassiter told him about the psychic investigators. “I would be willing to double their usual fee! Even treble it!” Excellent, Lassiter had thought. Dinner would be on Shawn next week), and for some twisted reason, he felt like he was courting Guster’s approval.

There was also an evil part of him that wondered what Shawn would do if he was forced to choose between a case and his ridiculous wrestling rumble thingy.

Without the possibility of spending the night with Shawn, Lassiter ended up pulling a double at the station, wrapping up the loose ends on some outstanding cases and investigating a sexual assault call, the kind that turned his stomach and made him glad that Shawn was busy with wrestling and werewolves.

He didn’t know quite what to think the next morning when Shawn and Gus came in and said that Stewart had broken through their plate-glass window, but he assumed they were probably exaggerating. Shawn had smirked at him for wearing the same shirt two days in a row, but before he and Guster left, he had dragged Lassiter into the janitor’s closet and kissed him breathless.

“Is this how you spend your time when I’m not around? Lassie, that’s just sad. Did you even sleep at all, or just work through the night?”

“I had things to do,” Lassiter said with a shrug. “Unlike you, I can’t go to sleep when I have cases to work on.”

“Right,” Shawn said, “like you didn’t send Stewart to me because you thought he was just a nutcase, not an actual case.”

“The fact that he fled in the middle of the night after you duct-taped him to a chair suggests that he’s saner than I realized,” Lassiter admitted.

“And the fact that he busted through the window and left behind a handful of fur suggests that there’s something to his story.”

“Fur? Seriously? Should I load up on silver bullets and be on the lookout for young women wearing red hoods and carrying picnic baskets?”

“Stewart has the silver bullets covered,” Shawn said loftily, “and Little Red Riding Hood was menaced by an actual wolf, not a werewolf, which should be obvious because he threatened her in broad daylight.”

“Spencer, I have non-fairy tale related work to do. Go play with Guster.”

Shawn grinned and kissed him again, reaching for the doorknob. “Just wait and see, Lass. I have a feeling that this case is more than it seems.”

Of course Spencer proved to be right about that, damn him, Lassiter thought later as he closed the car door behind Dr. Ken Tucker. Shawn wandered over to stand next to him, waving obnoxiously to Tucker in the backseat of the car.

“I can’t believe you put that disgusting wolf pelt on your head,” Lassiter said to him.

“It’s clean,” Shawn said, wounded. “I mean, except for the murderer cooties.”

Looking around to make sure that no one else was close enough to hear them, Lassiter said “That may be true, but I’m not touching you again until after you’ve had a shower.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows speculatively. “I bet I could make you break that vow.”

Lassiter sighed and changed the subject, because he was pretty sure Shawn was right about that. “Is Guster serious about that?” he asked, nodding towards where Gus was staring moonily at Willow Gimbley while she and Stewart talked to Juliet about coming down to the station the next day to give their statements.

“Oh, he’s serious enough about thinking she’s pretty,” Shawn said with a grin, “but since Willow there is some kind of Wicca and Gus is so superstitious that he avoids black cats and ladders, I don’t think they have much of a future. Poor Gussy, he’s so predictable. He always latches onto the first attractive woman he meets anytime he thinks that I’m, uh, involved with someone past one or two dates.”

Lassiter gave him a look. “That’s happened enough for him to have a pattern?”

“Well, not really since high school,” Shawn admitted. “Even the thing with Abigail didn’t last long enough for him to develop a complex over it.”

No, Lassiter thought, that lasted just long enough for ME to develop a complex. To Shawn, he said “I’m going to have to go down to the station to wrap up the loose ends, so I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

“Come over to my place when you get off,” Shawn said, “and then, you know, we can get off together.”

“Do lines like that ever work for you?”

“I think I have a pretty solid shot at getting laid tonight, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Juliet asked, and Lassiter blinked in surprise because he hadn’t even noticed her walk up.

“We were just discussing Gus’s infatuation with Lady Dark Side over there,” Shawn said smoothly. “He better treat her right, or she might turn him into a frog.”

Juliet swatted him on the shoulder. “Wicca is a legitimate religion, and she seems nice. She clearly loves her brother a lot. Are we done here, Carlton?”

“Yeah. Spencer, leave that thing alone,” he said, as Shawn reached over to pet the wolf pelt that Juliet still had draped over her arm.

Shawn gave it one last pat on the head. “Bye, Harold. I named him Harold,” he said to Juliet and Lassiter. “He likes long walks by the beach, Italian food, Vin Diesel movies, and grandmas. His dislikes include evil psychiatrists and huntsmen with axes.”

“Good night Shawn,” Juliet said, looking equal parts exasperated and amused. Lassiter didn’t say anything, just nodded curtly at the questioning look Shawn gave him.

After Dr. Tucker was questioned and booked, Juliet asked Lassiter if he wanted to grab a quick bite to eat before going home, and he agreed; he was hungry, and there was no telling if Shawn would have any actual food at his place, or just a vast assortment of junk food.

“All of that, just to cover up an affair,” Juliet said as they waited on their food to arrive at the table. “Why couldn’t he just beg for forgiveness like a normal person? Or suck it up and get a divorce if he can’t stay faithful?”

“He put on the skin of a dead wolf in an order to frame an innocent nutjob for murder and by his own admission killed two hunters in the spur of the moment to bolster his story. I think ‘normal’ passed this sicko by a long time ago.”

“No kidding,” Juliet agreed. “Soooo, I couldn’t help but notice that you spent all of last night at the station.”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “So what?”

“It’s been a while since you’ve done that.”

“Yes,” he agreed cautiously, not sure where she was leading. “I didn’t feel like going home, and it was a good opportunity to clear away some paperwork.”

“Oh Carlton,” she said sadly, “does this mean that you broke up with your boyfriend?”

“What? No! First of all, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s just…” Lassiter scowled as he tried to think up a word to describe Shawn, “…a person I’m seeing. Second of all, he had something else to do last night. And third, we don’t spend every night together.” Even as he said it, he had to acknowledge to himself that they were spending a lot of nights together, certainly more than he would have assumed they would be when they started this…thing.

“Oh,” she said, sounding pleased, “I’m glad things are still going well, then. So, when are you going to tell me something about him?”

“I’m not,” he said, hoping she couldn’t see how uncomfortable this line of questioning made him, “I don’t know why you think that I would.”

“I always tell you about the guys I date!”

“Usually a lot more than I want to know,” he agreed.

“Well, then I don’t understand why you won’t tell me anything!”

“Because it’s none of your business,” he said.

She frowned at him. “It’s my business because you’re my partner, and I care about your happiness.”

“That’s a low blow, O’Hara,” he said, glaring at her. “Look, he and I agreed to keep it private.”

“Okay, okay,” she said sulkily, “I respect your privacy.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Is it someone I know?”

“O’HARA!”

“It is someone I know, isn’t it? Someone from the station…oh my god, are you dating Detective Sanchez in the cybercrimes department? He’s so attractive, Carlton! You two would make such a handsome couple.”

“I am not dating Detective Sanchez,” Lassiter growled, “and I’m not discussing this with you anymore.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll just have to figure it out on my own. I am a pretty good detective, you know.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Lassiter said dismissively, but he wondered if it would really be so terrible if he told her. Shawn’s partner knew, after all. When he and Shawn had started this affair, it had been relatively easy to agree that he would keep it just between the two of them, because he had thought that the relationship, such as it was, wouldn’t last more than a couple of weeks. Now though, it had lasted more than two months, a fact neither of them ever mentioned, and he felt guilty keeping secrets from his partner. Maybe he should tell Shawn that he wanted to let Juliet know about them; she was certainly as capable of discretion as Guster.

He didn’t even think about it later that night though, when he went to Shawn’s apartment and found him watching _An American Werewolf in London_. He got a beer, kicked off his shoes, and sat down beside Shawn to watch the end of the movie. As soon as the credits started rolling, Shawn reached over and plucked the beer bottle out of Lassiter’s hand, setting it on a nearby table, and leaned in to kiss him.

“So, you believe I’m psychic now, huh?” he asked as he broke the kiss.

Lassiter stared at him in utter confusion. “What in the name of sweet justice would make you think that?”

“Earlier tonight you said that you were at the address that I ‘divined’.”

“I said no such thing,” Lassiter protested, even as he had a sinking feeling that he’d said exactly that.

“Oh, but you did! You sounded pretty grouchy when you said it, but you did say it.”

“If you’re psychic, then I’m a ballerina,” Lassiter said, and Shawn smirked at him.

“I’m dying to see you in a tutu,” he said, pulling Lassiter’s tie loose and tossing it aside. “Or at the moment, out of one.”

“I know how you do it,” Lassiter said matter-of-factly, and he couldn’t help but be gratified by the way Shawn froze for a few seconds, his expression going wary before smoothing out into a blatantly fake smile.

“Of course you know, I’ve told you repeatedly over the years until you’ve been forced to accept my awe-inspiring powers. Don’t worry Lassie, I don’t think less of you because your normal, workaday brain can’t tap into the secrets of the universe the way mine can.”

Lassiter shrugged, refusing to be baited, and started plucking open the buttons on Shawn’s shirt, his pulse quickening at the first touch of soft skin under his fingertips. “I know,” he repeated, and Shawn shifted uneasily.

“Right, you admitted it yourself tonight: I divine things. I’m a diviner. I am divine. Sadly, I am not related to Loretta Devine, which would be –“

Lassiter kissed him to shut him up, and after a few minutes he could feel Shawn relax against him, and he realized that he wasn’t quite ready to let this go yet, so he pulled back just far enough to whisper “I really do know,” against Shawn’s lips, and Shawn jerked away.

“Okay, what the hell Lassie? Didn’t we already agree not to do this?”

Lassiter sat down on the edge of the bed, gently tugging on Shawn’s shirt to keep him close. “If I agreed to anything, it was to not ask you how you did it. But I don’t have to ask anymore, because I know.”

“Stop saying that,” Shawn said, frustrated, and Lassiter realized that he was worried. Scared of what Lassiter might do if he really did know. He pushed Shawn down onto the bed, propped himself up on an elbow beside him, not pinning him down or making it difficult for him to escape if he felt trapped, just staying close.

“I don’t expect you to admit to anything,” he said earnestly, “and maybe I’m completely off base, but I don’t think that I am.”

Shawn bit his lip, turned his head to the side so that Lassiter couldn’t make eye contact with him. “What is it that you think you know?”

“Your mother,” Lassiter said, and watched Shawn’s shoulders tense up, “she has an unusual memory. Something like that might be inherited.”

“From my mother I inherited my flawless complexion and an allergy to Henry’s bullshit,” Shawn said, his carefree attitude firmly in place, though he still wouldn’t meet Lassiter’s eyes.

“Ah, Henry. That’s the other key, isn’t it?” Lassiter said, and was fascinated to see how Shawn’s hands clenched into fists. He picked one up, pried the fingers open, and kissed his palm, a move so gentle that Shawn finally did look at him, his eyes wide.

“Relax, Spencer. I told you, I’m not looking for you to confirm anything here. I’m just telling you what I think.”

“Well then,” Shawn said, his voice uneven, “I can’t wait to hear what you’ll say next.”

“Henry wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. He made you take the Detective’s Exam when you were fifteen, and you made a perfect score. He would have had to train you for that. For how long, Shawn? Years? Was there ever a time when you were a kid when you weren’t learning how to be a cop?”

Shawn didn’t answer, but Lassiter hadn’t expected him too. He laid his thumb against Shawn’s wrist, where he could feel the pulse beating rapidly.

“So it’s a combination of the natural gifts you got from Madeline, and years of training from Henry. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?” he asked intently, and now he did move so that he was on top of Shawn, not because he wanted to hold him down, but because he wanted to be able to see Shawn’s face.

“The way your mind works, the way you make connections—”

Shawn stopped him by reaching up to frame his face in both hands, pulling him down to kiss him frantically. “Shut up, shut up,” he whispered against Lassiter’s mouth. “I don’t want to hear anymore. Just fuck me, Lassie, stop talking and just…” he kissed him again, roughly this time, his shaking hands moving down to jerk open the buttons of Lassiter’s shirt.

When Lassiter woke up the next morning, he found himself alone, which wasn’t terribly unusual – Shawn was often a restless sleeper, and more than once Lassiter had found him watching TV or playing a video game in the other room in the middle of the night – but what was surprising was that this time, he didn’t appear to be in the apartment at all. After getting dressed, Lassiter pulled out his phone and tried Shawn’s number, only to get his voicemail. He didn’t bother to leave a message, just shrugged to himself and made certain that Spencer’s odd little apartment was locked up when he left.

There were any number of reasons Shawn might have taken off in the middle of the night, he reasoned to himself, mostly having to do with late night cravings for cheesy fries or nachos or whatever other starchy food he was in love with this week. He ignored the fact that that was an incredibly weak excuse, that Shawn had never done that before and certainly never left his own apartment while Lassiter was still there, because even if that wasn’t the reason, then there had to be an equally mundane excuse.

Telling Shawn that he had figured out how the psychic act worked had maybe been a risk, he acknowledged to himself, but when he had finally put all the pieces together, he hadn’t been able to keep it to himself. It wasn’t that he was angry about it – much to his surprise, he found that he was pretty mellow about it, probably because he had known all along that Shawn was faking it somehow – but that he wanted Shawn to know that he knew.

It had visibly caused Shawn to lose his composure, but in Lassiter’s opinion, that was only fair after all the years of one-upmanship and blatant lies. Having him disappear before dawn was somewhat disturbing, though, particularly when he recalled that Shawn had once left Santa Barbara for years.

He refused to admit that he felt relieved later in the day when Spencer and Guster showed up at the station, acting normal. Or at least as normal as they ever did.

“No, Shawn, I don’t think you could go undercover at a high school the way Johnny Depp did in _21 Jump Street_. No one is going to mistake you for a 17 year old.”

“Gus! Don’t be C. Thomas Howell’s career after _Soul Man_. I have a youthful glow. Right Jules?”

“Sorry, Shawn,” Juliet said regretfully, “I’m going to have to agree with Gus on this one. You can’t pass for a teenager anymore.”

“No, you’re looking at me from the wrong side,” Shawn said, striking a pose between Juliet and Lassiter’s desks. “What do you think now, Jules?

“I think I have work to do,” Juliet said sweetly, standing up with a stack of files cradled in her arm. “Besides,” she added as she walked past him, “who would want to go back to high school?”

“Give it up Shawn,” Gus advised. “You can act like an annoying teenager all you like, but no one is going to believe that you actually are one.”

“Lass? Am I more Johnny Depp or Channing Tatum?” Shawn asked, turning to him with big puppy dog eyes.

“In your dreams, Spencer,” Lassiter said, barely glancing up from his paperwork.

“Or in yours,” Shawn said suggestively, leering at him.

“Um, I’m still standing here,” Gus said, “and I’m not interested in whatever disturbing high school cop roleplay you two get up to, so I’m going to go see if there are any Clark bars in the vending machine. When I come back Shawn, we need to either have a case, or I need to go to my real job.”

He walked away, leaving Shawn to ponder “What would a high school cop roleplay consist of, do you think? Handcuffs and chalkboards?”

Looking around to make certain that no one was close enough to overhear them, Lassiter asked, “Where did you go this morning?”

“Oh yeah,” Shawn said, “sorry about that. I remembered that I had promised my dad that I would help him with something, and Gus and I ended up taking him out for waffles.”

“At four o’clock in the morning?”

“You know old people, always getting up while it’s still dark outside. I didn’t want to wake you before you had to get up for work, and I figured that you’re the last person I have to worry about leaving my door unlocked or stealing my old copies of Mad magazine. Although,” he added, narrowing his eyes, “I will be counting them when I get home just to make sure.”

“So everything’s okay?” Lassiter pressed.

“Everything’s hunky dory,” Shawn assured him, as Gus rejoined them and handed Shawn a candy bar.

“Do we have a case?” he asked, looking between Shawn and Lassiter.

“No cases today,” Lassiter said.

“You mean that all crime has ceased to exist?” Shawn asked in mock amazement. “Lassie, this means you can finally live that dream of retiring young – well, relatively young-ish…well, you still have all your hair and teeth – and hitting the pro water polo circuit.”

“Crime still exists,” Lassiter informed him dryly, “but not for you today. Go home, or back to Henry’s. I promise I’ll call if any more werewolves come through the station.”

Shawn looked like he wanted to argue, or at least stand around and tease Lassiter some more, but after a few seconds he shrugged and nodded.

“Come on, Gus, you can drop me off at the office. Later, Lassiepants.”

When they got to the office, Shawn was surprised to find Gus following him in, rather than speeding away to work his route. More concerning was the way that Gus leaned against his desk with his arms crossed, frowning.

“Okay Shawn, what’s going on?”

“What are you talking about?” Shawn asked, reaching into his desk to take out a file folder, opening it, and pulling out a copy of Details magazine. “You know, I accept the hurtful things everyone said about me not looking young enough to pass for a high school student, but I’m hotter than Channing Tatum, right?” He held the magazine cover up in front of him so that Gus could compare them.

Gus yanked the magazine out of his hands and dropped it onto the desk. “No, Shawn, you’re not hotter than Channing Tatum. Stop procrastinating and tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lassiter told you that he didn’t have a case for us and you just left? You didn’t steal a file from off his desk, or move on to harassing Juliet for a case, or stay at the station to listen in on conversations until you could find us something to work on? Is this how things are going to be now that you and Lassiter are…are…hanging out together?”

“First of all,” Shawn said, frowning, “I don’t harass Juliet. I talk to her, like friends, like colleagues, like compadres, and sometimes that leads to offering to help her out on whatever she’s working on. Second of all, I don’t steal files, I just borrow them sometimes so that we can make Santa Barbara a safer place. And finally, Lassie and I have been ‘hanging out’ as you so delicately put it, for a couple of months now, and we’ve gotten cases just like we always have. He even helps sometimes! He sent Stewart to us, remember? Anyway, we just wrapped our big werewolf case yesterday, so I think we’re entitled to a day off.”

“Shawn, I can tell when something is going on with you. You’ve been acting strange all morning. You only ate two waffles and you let your dad ramble on about trucks and fishing for nearly an hour. The only thing I can come up with is that something must have happened with Lassiter since yesterday. I told you Shawn, if this thing between you screws up our ability to work with the police, I'm going to kill you."

"Nothing is going to stand in the way of us working with the police," Shawn said firmly, "but yeah, okay, things are a little weird right now. Lassie kind of freaked me out last night."

Gus leaned forward and put his hand on Shawn's arm. "What happened? Are you all right? Did he want you to do something," he lowered his voice to whisper "kinky? It's okay, Shawn. It's nothing to be ashamed of. We'll get through this together."

Shawn looked down at the hand on his arm, then back at Gus, who appeared so earnest and honestly concerned that Shawn had to swallow the laugh bubbling up in his throat.

"Thanks, buddy. I admit, I was a little thrown the first time he pulled out the ball gag, but I got used to it. But the sex dungeon was a step too far."

Gus's expression was all wide-eyed horror, making it impossible for Shawn to keep a straight face any longer.

"Dude! This is Lassie we're talking about! You don't really think he has any of that stuff, do you?"

"I don't know! He's weird, Shawn! I don't know what kind of freaky things he likes to do!"

"He likes to do me," Shawn said. "If you want any more information than that, you'll have to subscribe to my adult newsletter, 'Head Detective After Dark: Down and Dirty with the SBPD's Finest'."

"First of all, you had better not really be writing a newsletter like that, because he will KILL you, and not in an amusing metaphorical way. Second of all, if it's not some creepy sex thing, then what did he do to freak you out?"

Shawn sighed, because he didn't really want to tell Gus this, but he had too, because Psych was as much Gus's baby as it was Shawn's.

"He knows," Shawn admitted, "about, you know," he waved a hand near his temple dramatically.

"YOU TOLD HIM?' Gus shouted, making Shawn cringe.

"No! I didn't tell him anything!"

"Then how could he know?"

"I don't know dude, he figured it out! He knows about my mom's eidetic memory, and we've spent so much time together in the past few months...I guess it just all came together for him. He is a detective you know."

"Okay, okay," Gus said, sounding like he was hyperventilating, "stay calm, Shawn, stay calm. We'll get through this."

"I don't think I'm the one who needs to stay calm here," Shawn said worriedly, wondering if he should look around for a paper bag for Gus to breathe into.

"The first thing we're going to do is go by my apartment. I have bags packed there for both of us. And then we're going to Jamaica. My second cousins there will let us stay with them for a while. I've been putting money away for just this contingency, so the plane tickets won't be a problem, but once we get there you're going to have to get some kind of job."

"Okay, you realize that there's an extradition treaty between Jamaica and the US, right? So if Lassie were intent on hunting us down to the ends of the earth, he wouldn't actually have to work that hard to get us out of Jamaica. More importantly, how long have you been planning this? You have money stashed away for an escape plan? Dude, that is so hardcore."

Gus didn't appear to be listening to him. "How much time do you think we have? Two hours, three? Has he told the Chief yet? I knew this thing between you was a terrible idea!"

Sighing, Shawn got up and went over to Gus's desk, taking him firmly by the shoulders. "Gus. You must chill. I didn't admit to anything. Lassiter has not threatened to arrest us. He wasn't even mad when he told me that he knew. In fact," he said, as realization sank in, "he told me that he didn't expect me to confirm anything. I don't think he even wants me to confess to anything. He just wanted me to know that he knows that I'm not telling the truth. I mean, he's always known, and I've known all along that he knows, but now he REALLY knows, and...I don't know. I don't know what to do about that, or if should do anything."

Now Gus was the one who looked concerned. "I think you're the one who needs to chill. Maybe you should sit down."

“Look, it’s fine,” Shawn said, trying to reassure himself as much as Gus. “Like I said, he’s not mad. It just threw me off my game today. By tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.”

He certainly hoped he was right about that; having Lassiter lay out the facts of how Shawn did what he did so precisely had made him feel naked – not the good kind of sexy naked, but like he was exposed and helpless. Like Lassiter had crawled right past all of his defenses and pinpointed his most vulnerable areas. He had woken up at three a.m. feeling panicky and hemmed in and had gone riding on his bike until it was time to meet Gus and go see his dad.

And while he was very glad that Lassiter didn’t seem to be planning to arrest him for anything, it terrified him to realize that Lassie might care about him enough to accept him, despite all the lies. It made him want to curl up next to Lassiter and stay forever, and it made him want to run as far as he could in the opposite direction. Maybe Jamaica wasn’t such a bad idea after all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue taken from "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark", credited to Andy Berman.

“Shawn’s been shot!” Gus said, his rising with panic, and Lassiter stared down at the blood on his fingertips with a sense of dawning horror. He felt paralyzed with fury – fury at anyone who would hurt Shawn, and an almost equal amount of fury at Shawn himself, the goddamned _idiot_ , who casually waltzed into a location where he was suspicious a crime was taking place in the middle of the night without any kind of back-up. Without even waiting for Gus, as useless as he might be in a physical altercation. Without calling Lassiter.

That was the part that really stung. Shawn had been distant for the past two weeks, ever since Lassiter had let him know that he knew how Shawn was pulling off the psychic act. He hadn’t broken things off with Lassiter – yet – but he had stopped spending the night, or inviting Lassiter to his apartment, or spending much non-sex-related time with Lassiter at all. He had even been somewhat scarce down at the station, enough so that O’Hara had wondered if he and Gus were working on a private case.

Lassiter hated to acknowledge, even just to himself, how much Shawn’s distance hurt. He understood that he had spooked Shawn by letting him know that he had figured out how the psychic act worked, but what could he have done differently? He had his pride too, damn it, and he wasn’t interested in pretending that he didn’t understand how Shawn solved cases. It wasn’t like he was going to tell anyone else, as much as a part of him chafed at the idea of playing any part in perpetuating a charade that defrauded his police department. But the fact was, he respected the work Shawn and Gus did. They caught bad guys. That was what it was supposed to be all about.

Except now, when everything had apparently gone pear-shaped and the person who was caught was Shawn. Not for the first time, Lassiter was grateful that O’Hara was his partner, because while he was still frozen by the realization that the blood on his hands was almost certainly Shawn’s, she was already making the call to issue a BOLO and calling in the crime scene guys to comb the site for evidence. He pushed the almost overwhelming fear and worry down and started for Gus, who was speaking to someone on his phone, hanging up just as Lassiter reached him.

“Let me see those texts,” he growled, reaching for Gus’s phone, “and tell me every damn thing he’s done for the last two days.”

Gus was still talking when Henry Spencer showed up, further complicating things. In general, the last thing he felt that any investigation needed was interference from the victim’s loved ones, and he almost wanted to laugh in disbelief at O’Hara when she said that Henry could be useful because “this thing might get personal.” It was _Shawn_. How could it possibly get any more personal? Hell, Henry might as well be involved. Maybe he could offer some insight into what his harebrained offspring had been thinking.

"I don't know what that idiot son of mine could have been thinking," Henry said worriedly, peering out the window as if he thought Shawn might suddenly come leaping out of the underbrush at them.

They were speeding down the highway, looking for any clues that might lead them to Shawn. He had sent O’Hara and Guster to do the work of following up on the investigating Shawn had been doing before his disappearance; he didn’t feel capable right now of questioning suspects or sifting through evidence. He wanted to punch something. Possibly Shawn.

"I never know what he's thinking," Lassiter snapped. "Sometimes I think I should just handcuff him to the damn bed all day so he doesn't get into trouble."

He cursed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. If he hadn't been so tired and so worried, he would never have let something like that slip in the first place, much less in front of Henry. Shawn was going to kill him, assuming Shawn was still alive.

Henry's mouth had dropped open and he was staring at Lassiter in shock.

"Oh, shit. It's you. You're the guy, the not-Gus guy! You're Val Kilmer!"

"Val Kilmer?" Lassiter asked, bewildered.

Henry didn't seem to hear him. "What the hell is Shawn thinking? You're divorced, you're a cop! Has he lost his mind?"

“He told you?” Lassiter asked, astonished.

“He told me he was seeing a guy. He didn’t tell me it was YOU. What the hell is wrong with that kid?”

"Henry..." Lassiter found himself more concerned than insulted, since the other man had turned a disturbing shade of red.

"'Keep him handcuffed...' _Jesus_ Carlton, I didn't need to know that!"

"Henry! I'm sorry. I never meant to say that. I would really appreciate it if you could forget that I said that." He wasn't sure which one of them was more embarrassed. "And I'm sorry you found out like this. Neither of us knows exactly what this is between us, so we were trying to be discreet about it."

"How long...you know what, never mind. I'll get the answers from Shawn later. Right now all I care about is finding him."

"You and me both," Lassiter muttered, and tried to ignore the searching look Henry was giving him.

When they spotted the broken pieces of taillight and Henry asserted that he had taught Shawn to do that, Lassiter bit back the question of how and why the elder Spencer had taught his son how to escape from the trunk of a car. Later, he promised himself, echoing Henry’s earlier words. After Shawn was safe.

**

I’m an idiot, Shawn thought to himself, and the evidence certainly seemed to support his assertion. To be fair, there was no way he could have known that the man at the gas station was in cahoots with Garth Longmore, or whatever his real name was, but the proof of his idiocy had occurred hours earlier, when he went to confirm his suspicions about the ice cream truck heist without waiting on Gus. Or even better, calling Lassiter, who would have grumbled and complained and come anyway because Shawn asked him to, and who would have had a gun of his own and would never have allowed Shawn to be shot and kidnapped.

Under normal circumstances, Shawn would never have admitted to wanting Lassiter to protect him, but these were hardly normal circumstances. Lassiter was going to be furious at him for putting himself in such a dangerous situation; not the good kind of furious that led to them working out their frustrations on the nearest horizontal surface, but the bad kind of furious that would lead to icy silences and cutting words and the abrupt end to their ill-conceived affair.

Now that he was suffering from a bullet wound and a concussion, it finally dawned on him that the intense, warm, mushy feelings that Lassiter inspired in him were not the scariest thing he could face. No, as it turned out, the thing that frightened him most was the very real possibility that he might never see Gus or his dad or Lassie ever again.

His head was pounding from when he’d been hit, and the lightheadedness and nausea he was experiencing suggested to him that he had a concussion. Of course, the painful throbbing in his shoulder made the aching in his head a mere secondary concern; between the two, he didn’t think he had ever been in so much pain in his life.

It was hard to focus on anything – hard to THINK – when everything was distorted by so much agony. He knew that he needed to stay alert, but he kept drifting off, most likely due to shock, which was why when he heard his dad and Lassiter’s voices, he thought that he was dreaming, at least until a split-second later when Longmore grabbed him around the throat, making it impossible for him to signal for help. But no, it was real, and his stupendously bad luck continued when they believed that the man they were talking to was unrelated to his kidnapping.

His panic at seeing Lassie and his dad walk away gave him a burst of adrenaline and clarity that he used to make his way to his phone. Unfortunately, Longmore caught him in the act before he could use it, but Shawn still had a few tools at his disposal, particularly his ability to figure out a person’s vulnerabilities and use them to his advantage. In Longmore’s case, that vulnerability was his girlfriend.

“Recently I met a girl,” Shawn said, mentally apologizing to Lassiter for the gender re-assignment; he didn’t really think this was the right time to investigate Longmore’s feelings on same sex relationships, “somebody special, just like you did. My girl’s name is Carly.”

It was surprisingly easy after that to convince Longmore that he needed to call his sweetheart to say goodbye. With shaking hands, he made the call.

Lassiter’s heart skipped a beat when he looked at his caller ID and saw that the incoming call was coming from Shawn's phone.

"Shawn?" he said carefully as he answered, and Henry's head shot up.

"Where is he?" he demanded. "Get a location!"

Lassiter waved a hand, indicating that he should shut up, and focused on the voice on his phone.

"Don't say anything," Shawn instructed, and Lassiter was struck by how odd he sounded, breathless and weak. "This call is to say goodbye."

He could hear another voice, behind Shawn, urging him to hurry. Keeping his own voice low, hoping it wouldn't carry over the phone, he said, "Where are you, Shawn?"

"Don't ask me any questions. If you care about me, you'll understand. We're not going to be able to have... much of a future anymore, but... back at where we were, I'll be there, okay?"

Lassiter's brow furrowed in confusion. He had no idea what Shawn was talking about.

"Shawn," he said softly, urgently, "I don't –"

"The wind chimes that I got you for your birthday... every time you hear them from now on, that'll be me."

Okay, that made no sense at all. He knew Shawn was trying to tell him something important, but he'd be damned if he knew what it was.

He could hear the voice behind Shawn again, anxiously saying "Tell her! This is supposed to be a goodbye call, so just tell her and hang up!"

"Listen," Shawn said, his voice shaking, making Lassiter feel like his stomach was tying itself into knots, "Before I go, I have to say...I need you to know...I love you. Goodbye, Carly."

The line went dead. Lassiter stared at his phone in utter disbelief.

"What did he say?" Henry demanded urgently. "Did he tell you where he is? Is he okay?"

"He said...he..."

"Carlton!" Henry shouted, "get it together, man! What did he say?"

Lassiter blinked at Henry, tried to focus on what was important. "He wasn't making any sense! He said something about wind chimes, and that he'll be back at where we were." And that he loves me, Lassiter didn't say, because that was a ruse, someone with Shawn had been letting him say his goodbyes, which meant that he might already be...

"Wind chimes?" Henry said, and he had already turned and started running in the direction in the direction they had just come from. "He's back at the gas station! Come on!"

He pulled out his phone as they ran, calling O’Hara to tell her where to meet them, only to find that she and Gus were already enroute to the area based on clues that they had uncovered. They all arrived at the gas station at nearly the same time, only to find Garth Longmore dead and Shawn missing.

The sheer terror that had flooded Lassiter at the sight of a body on the floor, before he realized that it was one of the criminals, energized him; there was no way he was letting Shawn slip through his fingers, not when they were so close.

Only a kidnapping involving Shawn could end with a ridiculous car chase down a strangely (though fortunately) deserted California highway. Lassiter could hardly believe it when the halfwit jumped onto the hood of his car, but he could hardly blame Shawn for wanting to bring about a speedy end to his abduction.

He was so giddy with relief at seeing Shawn relatively safe (though pale and bleeding and probably seconds away from passing out) that the “Good shooting, Detective,” just slipped out; sometimes it was hard to remember that Shawn was just a civilian.

“Did you just call me Detective?” Shawn asked, his tone one of amused affection, and Lassiter had to stop himself from going over to him, to touch him and hold him and make certain that he was actually real and alive. But there was still a kidnapper to arrest, and Shawn had Henry, and a minute later Gus, who rushed to his best friend’s side.

“The paramedics are on their way,” Juliet said as she ran up to him. “How’s Shawn?”

He looked over to where Henry and Gus had Shawn, who had apparently lost consciousness, stretched out on the grass on the side of the road.

“I don’t know. He was alert a minute ago, but now…”

She nodded. “He was running on adrenaline, most likely. Don’t worry, Carlton, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

He shot her a look. “Why would I be worried over that numbskull?”

She gave him a look right back. “I was at his apartment today, you know. I work with you every day, Carlton. I know what your shirts and ties look like. I thought it was pretty strange that so many of them were at Shawn’s place, until I stopped to think about it. He’s the person you’ve been dating, isn’t he?”

He turned away from her, unwilling to give her an answer. Besides, it was all a moot point now; he and Shawn were done.

Drimmer. An exploding building. Griffin and meathead football players and assassins with guns and a madman with a machete and a serial killer with a sense of whimsy and a collapsed mine and after all of that Shawn STILL had no consideration for his own safety. He still put himself at risk in the most blindly stupid ways imaginable.

Lassiter couldn’t go through this again.

He turned his attention back to the kidnapper that he had handcuffed and pushed into the backseat of his car.

“Read him his rights,” he instructed O’Hara gruffly. “If I have to get that close to him again, I’m going to kill him.”

She only hesitated for a second, and he knew that she knew that he was dead serious. She got into the car with the suspect and he could hear her crisp, no-nonsense voice reading out the Miranda rights.

He focused again on where Shawn was. He was still, his eyes closed, his complexion drained of color. From where Lassiter was standing, he looked dead, though he knew from the way Gus and Henry were acting that that wasn’t the case. Even knowing that, it was still an image from straight out of his nightmares.

Gus had removed the filthy makeshift bandage over Shawn’s shoulder and replaced it with clean gauze from a first aid kit he apparently kept in his car, holding it in place. He looked up and saw Lassiter watching them and made a motion for him to join them, but Lassiter shook his head. Shawn was as safe and well cared for as he could be under the circumstances. There wasn't anything Lassiter could do for him.

He walked a few feet away instead and leaned up against the side of Gus’s little blue car, pulling out his phone to call Chief Vick and update her on the situation. In the distance, he could hear sirens. He knew that he should feel relieved, but all he felt was empty.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A couple of things: First of all, the extent of my medical knowledge comes from watching about two seasons of House and the early years of ER, so don't expect any degree of realism to be portrayed here._
> 
> _Second of all, there will not be a new chapter next Sunday. Sorry! I had hoped to post uninterrupted until it was done, but I've posted everything that I have written, and I need a little extra time to work out the ending. Things should be back on track the following week, and the story will wrap up probably within two more chapters. Thank you for your patience!_

Uniform police arrived with the ambulance and took over the transport of the prisoner to the station, and only one person was allowed to ride along with Shawn in the ambulance, so Lassiter ended up taking Guster and O’Hara to the hospital, since Gus’s car was undriveable. He wasn’t sure otherwise if he would even have gone to the hospital; he was torn between wanting desperately to know how Shawn was, and wanting to keep his distance.

He stayed outside to call Chief Vick again once they arrived at the hospital to tell her where they were and ask if she wanted him to come in and question the suspect.

“No, I’ll take care of that myself,” she said, and under different circumstances the ice in her tone would have made him feel sorry for the poor bastard facing her wrath. “You and O’Hara can consider your shifts over for the day. I would appreciate it if you would stay there and call me as soon as you find out how Shawn’s doing.”

“Of course, Chief,” he said, and it was almost a relief to be ordered to do what he wanted to do anyway.

He got to the waiting room where Juliet and Gus were at nearly the same time as Henry did. Lassiter tried very hard not to look at the blood spotting Henry and Gus’s shirts from when they had cleaned up Shawn’s wound.

“The doctor said that the bullet went straight through and that because it was such a clean shot, there probably won’t be any permanent damage,” Henry told them without preamble. “However, they’re a little concerned about the possibility of infection and how much blood he lost since he went so many hours without it being treated. He’s getting a transfusion now. He also has a concussion and two cracked ribs, probably from jumping onto the car. The doctor said that as long as there are no complications, he should make a full recovery.”

Lassiter didn’t realize that he had practically sagged in relief until he felt Juliet’s hand on his arm. He straightened up as she said to Henry, “Will we be able to see him, do you think?”

“Yeah, after they get him settled in a room. He’s going to be here a few days, at least, depending on if there are any signs of infection.” Henry sat down heavily in one of the plastic chairs, shaking his head. “My son is one lucky sonofabitch. A shot like that could have shattered his clavicle or his humerus and caused permanent damage, or even worse, hit a blood vessel, but it was just a flesh wound.” He seemed to think about what he had just said and hastened to add “I didn’t mean to imply anything bad about Madeline, I just meant…”

“We know, Mr. Spencer,” Juliet said, transferring her attention to him. “Speaking of Shawn’s mom, has anyone called her yet?”

Henry pulled out his phone. “I should do that now. I wanted to wait until I knew his prognosis before I called her.”

Lassiter reached for his phone as well, to give the Chief the update she had asked for. After that, it was just a matter of waiting until they were able to see Shawn.

“Why wasn’t he with you?” Henry asked suddenly, after they had been there for nearly an hour. Lassiter thought at first that he was talking to Gus, but then he realized that everyone was looking at him expectantly. “If you two are…together, then why was he running around by himself in the middle of the night?”

Lassiter scowled, reluctant to discuss his personal life with, well, anyone. “We weren’t together that night. I don’t know what Shawn told you, but it was a fairly casual relationship.”

Across from him, Gus made a muffled sound of disbelief, so Lassiter turned his glare in that direction.

“What was that, Guster?”

“Nothing,” Gus said. “I just think you two are ridiculous.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lassiter snapped, just as a woman wearing nurse’s scrubs came into the waiting room and said “Family of Shawn Spencer?”

All four of them jumped to their feet as she approached. “Shawn is in stable condition, and is settled in a room. Fortunately, there was no sign of infection in his wound, but we are giving him a course of antibiotics as a precaution. We also have him on a mild painkiller; because of his concussion, we were unfortunately not able to give him something as strong as we normally would for a gunshot wound. We are keeping him overnight to monitor his progress, but if all goes well, he should be able to go home tomorrow or the next day. Follow me, and I’ll take you to his room.”

Lassiter followed the group, trailing behind a few feet, hesitating outside the door. It wasn’t until he heard Shawn’s voice that he entered. When he walked into the room, Henry was saying “You had us all scared, kid.”

Shawn was lying back in the hospital bed, pale and drawn. He looked like he was struggling to keep his eyes open, but when he saw Lassiter he smiled weakly.

“Lassie, you came! Thank god you’re here. You’re the only person I can trust to be honest with me right now. Tell me the truth: How’s my hair?”

Relief flooded through Lassiter, because while Shawn looked exhausted and ill, he at least sounded like himself.

“It’s terrible,” he replied, because it was true. Shawn turned a mildly panicked look in Gus’s direction.

“I knew it! Gus, you have to go to my place and bring me my supplies. I can make you a list if you need one. The most important thing to remember is the mousse. And the gel. And my special comb.”

“Shawn, will you shut up about your hair!” Henry snapped, and everyone visibly tensed.

“Jeez dad, way to bring down the room,” Shawn grumbled.

“How are you feeling, Shawn?” Juliet asked diplomatically.

“At the moment I feel like I’m floating on a cloud of marshmallows being carried by a thousand tiny winged angels wearing Air Jordans and singing the sweet tunes of Billy Ocean.”

Juliet raised her eyebrows. “That’s…an oddly specific answer.”

“I’m an oddly specific guy,” Shawn agreed.

“The nurse said that they weren’t able to give you a very strong painkiller, so I was worried that you might be hurting.”

“Nah, no worries Jules. I have a high pain threshold and a low tolerance for medication. Just ask Gus what happens when I take Benadryl.”

“It’s true,” Gus said. “We got kicked out of the farmer’s market once because Shawn kept trying to fondle the pineapples after he took some allergy medicine.”

“Those spiky goddesses were taunting me,” Shawn said, shifting slightly, and Lassiter didn’t miss the way his forehead briefly creased with pain.

“Your mom’s on her way,” Henry said. “She’s working with a department in Carmel, so she’ll be here in a few hours.”

“Dad! You shouldn’t have called her. I don’t want her to worry,” Shawn said, and for the first time since they had entered the room, he sounded distressed.

“Do you know what she would do to me if she found out that you’d been shot and I hadn’t told her?” Henry asked. “Besides, the rest of us were worried. Why should she be any different?”

“No reason to be worried,” Shawn said. “Psychic, remember? I knew I would be fine.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes in annoyance, since the only person in the room who might possibly believe that story was O’Hara, and even she couldn’t be that gullible, he hoped.

“Shawn…” Henry started to say, exasperation apparent in his tone, but Shawn ignored him, turning his attention once more to Juliet. Again, as he moved slightly, the briefest expression of pain crossed his face, gone so quickly that Lassiter wondered if he had imagined it.

“Hey Jules, did you see me jump on the hood of Lassie’s car? That had to rank as the number one sexiest thing you’ve ever seen me do, right?”

“More like the stupidest thing she’s ever seen you do,” Lassiter muttered, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“Somebody’s always got to be a critic,” Shawn complained, wincing as he tried to adjust a pillow behind him, and Lassiter suddenly couldn’t stand any more polite chitchat.

"I need a few minutes alone with Spencer," he said, "so that I can take his statement."

Four sets of eyes turned to regard him skeptically, and he sighed in defeat, because at this point it wasn’t like everyone in the room didn’t know the deal. "Fine. Can we have a few minutes in private, please?"

Gus shrugged. "I need to check out the pudding situation in the cafeteria anyway."

"I'll come with you," Juliet said. "I'm starving, and I could use a cup of coffee. Carlton, can I get you anything?"

"No thanks," he said.

"What about me?" Shawn protested. "I'm the one who got shot! I can't be expected to make a speedy recovery on hospital food."

Henry patted him on the leg as he walked past. "I'll talk to the nurse and see if she'll let me bring you a smoothie. No promises."

"Pineapple mango," Shawn instructed. "Thanks, Pop."

As he walked past Lassiter, Henry leaned close and said "You have fifteen minutes. Don't upset him."

Then they were alone.

"So, is my dad bossing you around now too?" Shawn asked. "You don't have to listen to him, you know. I never do."

"He told me not to upset you," Lassiter said, sinking down into the chair closest to the bed.

"That’s ironic, since he’s the one who went all ballistic on me just a few minutes ago. But you know, maybe you should listen to him."

Lassiter reached over and adjusted the pillow that Shawn had been trying to move a few minutes before, and Shawn sighed in relief.

“How much pain are you actually in? And don’t give me any bullshit about marshmallow clouds and Billy Ocean.”

“All of that was true,” Shawn said, “I just left out the part where the tiny angels are stabbing me through the shoulder with hot pokers and tap dancing across my ribs and doing some unspeakable violence in my head. Hey, could you hand me that cup of water please?”

Silently, Lassiter handed him the water that a nurse had left on the side table for him, watching as Shawn took a sip and handed the cup back, unable at the moment to even stretch far enough to set it down himself.

“Thanks, Lass. So, since you tossed everyone else out, I assume you’re looking for some hospital nookie. I’ve never done it in an adjustable bed before, I bet—”

“Spencer. Shut up.”

“Ah,” Shawn said, “Okay. It’s probably just as well, the monitors would all go crazy and the nurses would come in and you would get banned from the hospital the same way I got banned from the farmer’s market.”

Lassiter couldn’t take anymore. “Jesus Christ, Shawn, what were you thinking? Why didn’t you call me to come with you? Why do you have to be so goddamn reckless?” He stopped, breathing hard, looking down at his hands.

"If you're going to break up with me Lass," Shawn said quietly, "then do it now, while I'm on these crappy painkillers."

Lassiter opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn’t actually been planning on breaking up with Shawn right that moment – even as tactless as he could be, he knew that breaking up with someone recovering from a gunshot wound in the hospital would be harsh – but as usual, Shawn was a step ahead of him. Wouldn't this be the easiest way to make a clean break of it? Shawn expected it; he knew that Lassiter was angry enough with him to end things. Losing Victoria to divorce had been bad enough. Losing Shawn the way he was inevitably going to lose him if Shawn continued to act as recklessly as he had been would be unfathomably worse. He wanted to do this. It was the only way to protect himself.

And he also wanted to reach over and touch Shawn, kiss him, hold him, reassure them both that he was safe. Take him home and keep him there.

"You know what?" Shawn said, interrupting his thoughts, "I changed my mind. Go away. I want to sleep right now."

"What?" Lassiter asked, startled by the sudden change in Shawn’s tone.

Shawn couldn't actually turn his back on Lassiter, not without jarring his shoulder, but he turned his face away and closed his eyes. "You heard me, Lassie. We don't need to have this conversation. My whole body fucking hurts and I just want to go to sleep."

For a long moment, Lassiter continued to sit there, but it soon became clear that Shawn was serious. Feeling a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, Lassiter did as he was asked and left.

Juliet was in the hallway when he came out of the room, but Henry and Guster were nowhere in sight.

"The guys went down to the gift shop to pick up some toiletries for Shawn," she said. "Hey, are you all right? You look almost as pale as Shawn does."

"I'm fine, O'Hara. Look, I'll leave you the keys to the car and you can take Guster and Henry home when they're ready. I'm going to call a cab."

"You're leaving? But you and Shawn...what happened in there?"

"O'Hara, I don't want to talk about it."

"Carlton—"

Still on edge from his encounter with Shawn, he wasn't able to listen to anymore. "How many times do I have to tell you that this is none of your business, O'Hara? If you really want to know, it's over. Spencer was on the verge of ending things between us before all this, so I'm only giving him what he wants."

"Carlton, you're an idiot," Juliet said flatly, her eyes flashing with anger.

"Why?" Lassiter snapped back. "Because I don't want to be there to watch him get himself killed? Because that's what's going to happen, O'Hara. One of these days, he's going to end up in a situation that he can't get himself out of, and I...I can't..." he looked away from her, unable to complete the thought, the memory of Shawn pale and bleeding still too fresh in his mind.

"Oh, Carlton," she said softly, and he felt, rather than saw, her arms go around him. Hesitantly he hugged her back and found that he didn't want to let go.

"Shawn's going to get himself in trouble, whether you're with him or not," Juliet said. "That's just who he is. Don't you think his chances of survival are better if you're around to watch out for him?"

"No," Lassiter muttered, "because sometimes I want to kill him myself for being so reckless."

Juliet pushed away a little so that she could look up at him. "You've been so much happier recently. I didn't even know who you were dating — and you're in so much trouble for not telling me, by the way — but I could see that whoever it was was making you happy. Don't give that up, Carlton."

"How happy is it going to make me when the murder scene we show up at is his?" Lassiter countered, and Juliet sighed in frustration.

"How happy is it likely to make Shawn when he gets the call that you've been shot or assaulted by a suspect?" she asked. "You know the risks that come with this job."

"But Shawn isn't a cop," Lassiter argued.

"But he is a detective," Juliet said firmly. "Can you really imagine him being satisfied doing anything else? And with that job comes certain hazards. You accepted that for yourself a long time ago. You just need to learn to accept it for Shawn. And," she added, before he could say anything else, "you're right, he does take gambles that put his life in jeopardy. That's why he needs you around, to remind him to be more careful."

Lassiter shook his head. "He doesn't listen to me. You shouldn't think that this thing between us is more than it is. It's just..." Sex, he almost said, but he didn't want to say that to O'Hara, and besides, he had stopped believing it himself a long time ago, "...a fling. It's just a fling."

"I don't believe that. I saw the way you were looking at him in that hospital room, Carlton, and I saw the way that when you walked in, he lit up like you were the best thing he'd ever seen."

"You're imagining things, O'Hara, because you're a sappy romantic. Trust me, none of this means anything to Shawn."

"And what about you, Carlton?" she asked softly, "What does it mean to you?"

Abruptly he turned away from her. "I should go down to the station and see what the Chief found out from our suspect. I don't have time to stand around and gossip with you anymore."

She didn't argue, but as he started down the hallway, he heard her mutter under her breath "Idiot.”


	21. Chapter 21

Shawn did fall asleep almost immediately after Lassiter left, waking up disoriented and confused a few hours later to find a nurse checking his bandages.

It all came back to him in a rush, the shooting and the abduction, the terrifying hours in which he thought he might actually die, the car chase and Lassiter calling him “Detective,” a memory that made him smile for a moment until he also remembered that Lassiter was ready to wash his hands of their entire relationship.

Maybe he should be grateful. The whole thing with Lassiter, it was too scary and strange, too intense, particularly in the weeks since Lassiter had revealed that he knew that Shawn wasn’t psychic. Shawn had been trying to work up the courage to end it himself, but he kept coming back to the fact that he didn’t want to. He liked the time they spent together too much. And that brought him full circle to being scared again.

It made him think of his mom, who had left, and his dad, who had rejected everything that Shawn wanted his life to be in order to try and re-create his own life, only better. If there was one lesson that Henry had taught him that had stuck, it was to not trust other people. Gus was the only person he had ever completely broken that rule for, and he was the only one who had really stuck by him no matter what, even after the secrets Shawn had kept from him. So he wasn’t surprised that Lassiter couldn’t deal with the reality of being involved with him, but knowing that the end was coming didn’t make him any less sad.

The nurse asked him a few questions to establish that he was coherent after the concussion he had received, and he answered straightforwardly, too tired to even make jokes, which usually came as natural to him as breathing.

“Good,” she said, pleased with his responses, as she moved to adjust a monitor. “You’re friends were very worried about you, Mr. Spencer. Your father said to tell you that he would be back in the morning, as soon as visiting hours start.”

Shawn nodded, the pain medication already starting to pull him back under. His last thought before he fell asleep again was that he wished he hadn’t fucked everything up.

**

Henry insisted that Shawn come stay with him for at least a few days once he was out of the hospital, and while Shawn argued, he was secretly a little relieved, because his whole body still ached and it might be nice to have someone to help him out for a day or two, even if it was his dad. Madeline had come and visited him in the hospital, and helped get him settled at Henry’s house when he was released, before she had to go back to work. It had been nice to see her, both because he hadn’t seen her in a while and because since the divorce, Henry was usually on his best behavior around her, meaning he didn’t complain nearly as much.

Now that it was just him and his dad again though, both of their tempers were starting to fray. The evenings were better, because Gus would come over after work and hang out, but even just two days alone with his dad was making him crazy, especially since he didn’t have anything better to do than replay those last moments in the hospital with Lassiter over and over in his head. He cringed a little at how drama-queeny he must have sounded throwing Lassie out of the room before he could say that he wanted to break up with Shawn. It wasn’t as if the words themselves made any difference; Lassie hadn’t been by to visit again, and Shawn hadn’t expected him to come.

It didn’t help on the second night at his dad’s house when Henry said out of nowhere, “I’m sorry about you and Lassiter.”

"It's cool," Shawn said, in a tone that suggested that it was not cool at all. "I knew that Lassie and I were just a short-term thing. Besides Pop, you would flip out if I ended up with someone like that. I'll find myself some nice girl when I'm ready to settle down. Which will not be anytime soon."

"Please," Henry snorted, "you would eat someone nice for breakfast."

"Hey, I'm nice!" Shawn protested, wounded.

"No, you're good. You're a good person, kid, and you try to do the right thing. But you're also a stubborn, bullheaded jackass who always thinks he's right."

"Gee, thanks, Dad," Shawn said. "Have I mentioned how much I love this enforced bonding time?"

"Oh, don't get your panties in a twist. All I'm saying is that you don't need someone nice. You would bulldoze right over them."

"Gus is nice, and I don't...I mean, sure, sometimes I give him a little push when he needs it, but I don't..." He paused and frowned, glaring at Henry. "I'm nice!" he said belligerently.

"Calm down, kid. It's not an insult. I'm just saying that you're strong-willed, and you need someone equally strong-willed to stand up to you when you're being an ass."

"I think you might want to re-evaluate what you consider an insult," Shawn muttered.

"My point," Henry said loudly, "is that Carlton is a good man, and a good cop, and he can be almost as much of a stubborn ass as you can be. I can see how he might be good for you."

Shawn frowned. "He's not broccoli, dad. I didn't start sleeping with him because he provided daily nutrients."

"Shawn, would you give it a rest?" Henry said, his tone laced with impatience. "What I'm trying to say is that while I was surprised at first that you were dating a cop, if you wanted to pursue something with Lassiter, I would support you."

"So what is this, are you giving us your blessing? That's sweet, Pop, but since Lassie can barely bring himself to look at me right now, it's a little too late."

"And who's fault is that, Shawn? Huh?" Henry snapped.

Shawn leaned his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. His shoulder was throbbing and his head hurt, and he wished that he could wake up and find out that the past week had been a dream.

Henry sighed, and in a much calmer voice he said, "I've watched you mope around the house for the past two days, looking like you lost your best friend. Only, I know that's not the case because Gus was here last night and ate all of my ice cream."

"Would you stop bitching about that? He said he'd buy you some before he comes over tonight."

"That's not the point, Shawn! A man has a right to find the ice cream that he bought for himself waiting for him in his freezer when he expects it! I wanted some Cherry Garcia last night and..." Henry stopped and took a deep breath, visibly pulling himself together. "Never mind. I didn't raise you to be a quitter, Shawn. God help me, I can't believe I'm saying this, but if you want Lassiter, go after him."

Shawn didn't move from his spot on the couch, but he felt all the antagonism drain out of him, only to be replaced with sadness. He wasn’t going to embarrass either himself or Lassiter by pursuing something that Lassiter didn’t want. "It's not that easy, dad. But thanks."

Henry sighed and stood up. "Fine, kid. Just sit here and brood. You'll never get anything you want that way."

Which was when Shawn decided that it was time for him to go back to his own apartment. He stayed for one more night, watching movies with Gus, and went home the next day, happy to be back in the familiar confines of Mee Mee’s Fluff and Fold.

The only problem with being back at his place was all the little reminders of Lassiter lying around. While they hadn’t spent quite as much time at his apartment as they had at Lassiter’s, particularly over the past couple of weeks when Shawn had been trying to figure out if he wanted to end the relationship before he was in any deeper, there were still obvious signs that Lassie had spent time there, from his favorite beer in the refrigerator to the crisp white shirts hanging from the spinner in the front room to the tie draped over the headboard of the bed, which, along with the jar of lube on the nightstand, Shawn kind of hoped Juliet and Gus hadn’t noticed.

His phone rang, and when he pulled it out of his pocket he was mildly amused to see that it was Juliet; it was as if thinking about her had conjured her up.

“Hi Jules,” he said as he answered, “please tell me you have a case. I’m bored.”

“No cases,” she said firmly. “There’s no way that Vick is going to hire you until after you’ve had a chance to heal.”

“I got shot! Haven’t I been punished enough?”

“I don’t think that argument is going to work on the Chief. However, if you wanted to come by the station and say hello to Carlton—”

“No,” he said automatically, his stomach doing flip-flops at the thought. “Besides, if he wanted to see me, it’s not like I’ve been hard to find the past few days.”

She sighed. “He told me that the last time you saw him at the hospital, you told him to get out. Is that true?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Shawn, you know how stubborn he is. If you told him to leave you alone, then he’s going to do that for as long as you allow it to go on.”

Shawn remained silent, because he knew she was right but he didn’t want to admit it. Besides, wasn’t Lassiter supposed to be the mature one? Oh god, what if neither of them was the mature one?

“Anyway,” Juliet said, her tone a little kinder, “the reason I called was to see how you were feeling, and if you were up to having lunch with me today.”

“I’m better,” he said, “and Gus and I are going to lunch at the burger place near the pier. You should join us.”

“Sounds good,” she agreed.

Almost as soon as he hung up with her, Gus called to say that he was going to be late, so Shawn ended up taking a cab to the restaurant to meet Juliet, which was a pain; he was used to being able to get around on his own, but he couldn’t ride his bike with his arm in a sling.

She already had a table on the patio for them when he arrived, and she stood up to give him a gentle hug.

“How are you feeling really?”

“I’m good, Jules. There’s no way one little bullet wound could keep me down.”

“Shawn, you can tell me the truth.”

He shrugged uncomfortably then winced; even shrugging with his good shoulder hurt. “The truth is that basically my entire upper body feels like I went ten rounds with Mike Tyson back in his ear-biting days, but I am way too macho to admit to that.”

“Noted,” she said gravely, “so I’ll change the subject: were you ever going to tell me that you were dating my partner?”

“Um, I don’t know if you would really call it dating,” he said awkwardly, “and are you sure you wouldn’t like to talk about last night’s episode of _American Duos_ or something?

“No, I think I want to talk about this,” she said, and Shawn’s heart sank as he realized that she had her implacable cop face on, though it disappeared momentarily as she sweetly smiled at the waiter who came to take their order.

“I’m sorry we kept it a secret from you, Jules. We were trying to keep it just between us. You finding his stuff in my apartment was not how either of us meant for you to find out.”

“I know that, Shawn. I understand why you were keeping it private. What I don’t understand is what’s going on between you now. You know how much he cares about you, don’t you? The only question in my mind is wondering how much you care about him.”

Shawn looked down at the glossy menu in front of him, unwilling to meet her eyes. “I…it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t anything serious. Honestly, I think we were both surprised that it lasted as long as it did.”

She made a sound of frustration, and he looked back up at her to see that she was glaring at him in a way that she normally reserved for criminals and people who broke in line in front of her when she was waiting for coffee.

"Can’t you tell psychically how Carlton feels about you?" she asked.

"It doesn't work that way, Jules. Lassie is all closed off and manly and repressed...well, maybe not as repressed as he used to be, but psychically repressed. And I think the sternum bush might be a barrier to my powers."

"But Shawn," she said, frowning, "I've seen you use Carlton during your visions dozens of times. How did that happen if he's psychically repressed?"

"Uh, it's different when you're personally involved with someone. The spirits consider it cheating."

"Okay, assuming that's true," she said, ignoring his sound of outraged protest, "you're still a very perceptive person, Shawn. Are you really telling me that you can't see how strongly Carlton feels about you?"

Shawn sighed and kicked at the table leg. He was starting to regret agreeing to have lunch with her. "Jules, it's complicated. Look, before this," he said, pointing to his sling, "I know that Lassie...tolerated me. Tolerated me better than he tolerates most people. Maybe, possibly, even liked me a little, especially when we both had our clothes off. But he and I agreed from the beginning that we were just, you know, blowing off some steam."

Juliet stared at him in disbelief. "I'm surrounded by idiots," she said, throwing her hands in the air in frustration.

"Tell me about it," Gus agreed as he walked over to their table, just as Juliet's phone vibrated. She pulled it out and read the text she had received, standing as she did.

"I'm sorry guys, I have to go. Carlton just arrested a suspect in the State Street robberies and he wants me there for the questioning." Her phone vibrated again and she sighed. "Correction: he wants me there five minutes ago. For some reason," she said, glaring at Shawn, "he's been extra cranky this week."

"I can't be held accountable for Lassie's mood swings!" Shawn said defensively, and Gus and Juliet shared disquietingly identical eyerolls.

"Will you try and talk some sense into him?" Juliet said to Gus as she started to walk away.

"I can't work miracles," Gus said, "but I'll try."

He sat down in Juliet's vacated seat, but before he could say anything, Shawn held up a hand to forestall any conversation. "Can I at least enjoy my lunch without any discussion of Lassiter, or me and Lassiter, or my sex life in general?"

A different waiter than the one who had taken their order came by and delivered their food. Gus checked out the burger Juliet had ordered, shrugged, and picked it up to take a bite out of it before replying.

"Shawn, I would be more than happy to never discuss, think about, or acknowledge the existence of your sex life ever again. How's your shoulder today?"

"Not bad. I think I still have a shot of making the Olympic tennis team."

"As what, their waterboy?"

"Hurtful. Uncalled for. You're a dream killer."

"Uh huh," Gus said doubtfully, "and for how long have you had this Olympic tennis dream?"

"Since this morning, when I saw a picture of Serena Williams hanging out at a party with Laurence Fishburne. If I win an Olympic medal, maybe I could party with Morpheus!"

"Shawn, Laurence Fishburne does not want to party with you."

"You don't know that. I'm cool."

"Since you've been through a painful ordeal this week, I'm going to let that slide. But just so you know, no one thinks you're cool."

"How was that letting it slide?" Shawn wondered. "And, I am so!"

"Whatever, Shawn," Gus said, changing the subject. "So, you're back at your place?"

"As of this morning. Three days was more than enough time alone with Henry."

"I hear that. How are you doing really?"

"I managed to dress myself this morning. Uh, mostly. I might need you to come by tomorrow and help me tie my shoes and button my shirt and, uh, put on my pants. Or maybe I'll just keep wearing these clothes until my ribs are completely healed."

Gus made a face at him. "You need to get back together with your boyfriend, because there's no way I'm helping you put on your pants."

"I thought that we agreed that this was a No Lassie Zone," Shawn said, "and that you didn't want to talk about my sex life. Which, let me add, does not include Lassie dressing me. Usually it's the other way around."

"You dressing him?" Gus asked, confused.

"No! Clothes coming off, not clothes going on."

“And we’re back to me not wanting to hear about your sex life.”

“If you haven’t figured out yet that it’s better without clothes, then maybe we need to talk about _your_ sex life.”

“Shut up, Shawn. Are you done?” he asked, gesturing to Shawn’s nearly empty plate.

After they left the restaurant, they walked along the path near the beach, Shawn enjoying the fresh air and sunshine after days of being stuck inside. Unfortunately, not even the beautiful Santa Barbara weather could make him stop thinking about Lassie. His mind drifted back to the terrible day at the gas station and the desperate phone call he had made.

Hesitantly, he said "You know, I had to tell Lassiter that I loved him."

"Was it weird?"

"Well, there was a dude standing over me who had already shot me once threatening to do it again if I said anything suspicious, so, yeah, it was kind of weird."

"That's not exactly what I meant, Shawn."

"I know," Shawn said, looking off into the distance, instead of at Gus. "It was weird...but it also wasn't."

"Because you meant it," Gus said softly, and Shawn felt a panicky flutter in his chest that made him want to retreat.

"Don't be the dude with a tiny bladder who sits in the middle of the row at the movies. The thing with Lassie wasn't serious...owwww! What was that for?" Shawn yelped, rubbing the spot on his (previously uninjured) arm where Gus had just thumped him.

"That was for being a damn fool, Shawn! 'Oh, it's casual,'" he said in a high-pitched falsetto. "'It doesn't meeeeaaaannn anything.’"

"I don't sound like that," Shawn protested, insulted.

"'We're just fooling around, it's not serious, blah, blah, blah,'" Gus continued, saying the final "blah" in his normal voice. "Shawn! It's serious, okay? Have you ever known Carlton Lassiter to not be serious about anything? And you! For the first time in your life, you've been with the same person for months. You've had fights and made up. You've spent all kinds of time together and not gotten bored. And then you go around trying to tell everyone that it's not SERIOUS?"

Gus took a deep breath and turned to look Shawn directly in the eye, which was kind of freaky, and put a hand on Shawn's shoulder. "For the love of God, would you please just admit that you're in love with the man so the rest of us can move on with our lives?"

The deflecting comment that Shawn had been prepared to give in retort died on his lips at Gus's sincerity, and the panicky feeling in his chest seemed to expand outward. He looked down at his shoes and fidgeted uncomfortably.

"But Gus, what if he doesn't feel the same way?"

Gus shook his head. "I don't believe you, Shawn. You have all these freaky observation skills, and an IQ that is, frankly, ridiculous, and yet somehow, you're still a dumbass. Lassiter is nuts about you. He wouldn't have put up with half of your crap over the past few months if he wasn't."

"But he's not putting up with my crap anymore," Shawn pointed out miserably.

"Well, why should he? You didn't want anyone to know that you were seeing each other, you keep insisting that the relationship doesn't mean anything, you run off in the middle of the night and get yourself shot...can you blame him for wanting out?"

"But he and I agreed, Gus! It wasn't just me saying that it was a...a fling, or whatever, it was him too! So what makes you think that he feels any differently about it now?"

"Why else do you think he's so mad, Shawn? Have you ever seen him get this pissed off over a civilian who puts himself in danger? No. He's upset because you scared the hell out of him, and he doesn't want to see you get yourself killed. And, speaking as your best friend, I don't want to see that either."

"Gus..."

"What's the point of you sleeping with the most well-armed man in Santa Barbara if you're not going to take him along when you go to crime scenes in the middle of the night? If you weren't going to call him, you could have at least waited for me."

"Believe me," Shawn said, gesturing to his shoulder, "I've learned my lesson. I'm sorry I screwed up."

"I know," Gus said. "Now you just have to convince Lassiter of that."

"I don't know. Maybe I should respect his decision and leave him alone. Isn't that what grown-ups do?"

"Shawn, the man loves you. If you let him know that you love him back, it might change everything."

Shawn blinked, his hazel eyes wide and startled as he looked at Gus. "You really think that Lassie loves me?" he whispered.

"Yes, Shawn," Gus said slowly, as if he were speaking to a toddler, "I thought you were supposed to be some kind of detective. That's why he's so scared. That's why he's letting you off the hook for lying about being psychic. That's why he worries so much about you, whether it's because you're fighting with me or because you've gone and gotten yourself kidnapped. Even though I can't figure out how or why, and I think it might be one of the signs of the apocalypse, Carlton Lassiter is clearly crazy in love with you."

"Oh," Shawn said, as he put all of that together with things that Gus couldn’t know, like how gentle Lassie had been when he told Shawn that he knew he wasn’t psychic, and how much he had trusted Shawn to do anything he wanted in bed, and realization finally, finally dawned. "Well. That changes everything."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a great big huge THANK YOU to every single one of you who left a comment on this fic, or a kudo on AO3, or a favorite on fanfiction.net, and special thanks to those of you who commented on a regular basis, to let me know that you were still reading and enjoying the story (I would name names, but I'm too scared of accidentally leaving someone out). An extra special thanks to moondragon25, for her encouragement behind the scenes.
> 
> I can't believe this story is finally done! I don't know what I'm going to do with myself now.

“Dobson!” Lassiter yelled from his desk, “where the hell did you put the files on the Moesby murder?”

There was no reply. Lassiter looked around the station, scowling. There were, of course, plenty of people around, but none of the detectives on the squad were anywhere to be seen.

“McNab! Get over here!”

Buzz jumped visibly at the sound of his name, but trotted over obediently. “Yes sir?”

“Where the hell is everybody? Where did Dobson go? And Miller? Where’s O’Hara?”

“Uhhh,” Buzz stuttered nervously, “I’m not sure, sir. I can go look for them, if you want.”

“Yeah, why don’t you do that,” Lassiter snapped, “and you can tell Dobson that if he doesn’t get his ass back here –”

He was interrupted by Chief Vick’s deceptively mild voice. “Detective Lassiter, may I see you in my office?”

He stood up, glaring at Buzz as he did. “Why are you still standing here? Go, go, go!”

“Close the door, Carlton,” Chief Vick said as he entered her office.

“Can we make this fast, Chief?” he said, as he did what she asked and shut the door, “I have a lot of work to do. Especially since all the other detectives have apparently taken the afternoon off.”

“Sit down,” she said, and he reluctantly did so. “Carlton, is something wrong?”

“Well, my entire team has disappeared, but…no, other than that, nothing’s wrong. What’s this about, Chief?”

“I believe your team is in hiding, Carlton. From you. You’ve been terrorizing them for days now. Even O’Hara, who normally lets your bad moods roll right off her back, is trying to avoid you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lassiter scoffed. “I haven’t been that bad.”

“Carlton. You have. Ever since Mr. Spencer’s abduction, you’ve been here day and night, working yourself to death and driving everyone around you crazy. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” he told her, “except that I thought I worked with cops, but it turns out that they’re just a bunch of grade-schoolers who can’t handle a little criticism.”

Vick pressed her lips together into a flat line. “Go home, Detective. You officially have the rest of the afternoon off.”

“Chief! That’s not fair!”

“Maybe not to you, but it’s certainly fair to the rest of us.”

He started to open his mouth to protest again, but she cut him off. “Don’t push your luck. You’re lucky that I’m not making you take the rest of the week off.”

He stood up reluctantly, about to stalk out of the office, but she spoke again before he could reach the door. “Maybe you could use your afternoon off to check in on Mr. Spencer and see how he’s doing.”

He paused, not turning around to face her. “Why would I want to do that?”

She sighed. “Oh, Carlton. Never mind.”

He hated being home, but couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Home was too full of reminders of all of the time over the past few months he had had spent there with Shawn. He had already put the DVDs and clothes Shawn had left at his place into a bag that he kept meaning to give to O’Hara so she could pass it on to Spencer the next time she saw him, and he’d thrown away other reminders of their time together, like the junk food Shawn had kept there. Out of sight, out of mind, he had hoped, but it didn’t work that way.

Instead, all he could see when he looked around his apartment now was how empty it was without Shawn’s presence. There was no one there to laugh at the terrible television sitcoms, or offer suggestions on the cold cases he read over dinner, or to push him into his mattress while he begged for more. It was like the apartment was haunted by Shawn, despite the fact that he was very much alive.

He kicked his couch, cursed at how much that hurt, and decided to go to the shooting range to blow off some steam.

He had been there for nearly an hour, firing mindlessly into the paper targets, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone enter the lane beside him. He attempted to ignore the other person, but a glimpse of a neat blonde ponytail confirmed his suspicion that it was his partner.

He waited until she was done firing (admiring the well-placed holes she placed in her target), then gestured for her to take out her earplugs.

“O’Hara, what are you doing here?”

“I have a lot of frustration to work out,” she said. “My partner told me to ‘shut it’ twice this morning, bringing the running total for this week up to an impressive sixteen times.”

He winced, embarrassed. Maybe Vick had been right to get him away from people. “I am _really_ sorry about that.”

“And,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him, “he also has spent the past week and a half being so rude and dismissive of everyone around him that I’ve had to go behind him apologizing to coworkers, witnesses, and even, once, a criminal for how abrasive he’s been. I’m a nice person, Carlton, but even I have my limits.”

God, he should just become a hermit. If he was even pissing off O’Hara, then he probably wasn’t fit to live among others.

Her tone softened as she added, “Luckily for my partner, I know why he’s being such a jackass, which makes it a lot easier to forgive him.”

He sighed and set his gun down on the counter in front of him, focusing all of his attention on her. “I don’t know why you put up with me, O’Hara. What can I do to make it up to you?”

“You can handle all of our paperwork for a month,” she answered immediately.

Narrowing his eyes, he frowned at her. Making it up to her was one thing, but he wasn’t going to be a pushover. “A week.”

“Yesterday you told me that my voice was so chirpy that it was drilling a hole in your skull. The day before that you snapped at me for walking too loudly.”

He grimaced. “Two weeks.”

“Two weeks, and you pay for all of our coffee during that time.”

“Two weeks, and I’ll buy your coffee for a week, plus spring for lunch on Friday.”

“Deal,” she said with a smile, satisfied.

“Did Chief Vick send you here?”

“No, this is a rogue mission. I worry about you, partner.”

“How did you know I would be here?” he asked curiously.

“I still remember that time during the first few months of our partnership, when you went to the shooting range and shot up those horrible little figurines that you had gotten for your wife. This is where you come to de-stress.”

“Those things were hideous. They deserved to be shot.”

“So,” she nodded towards his stack of shredded targets, “do you picture Shawn while you’re shooting?”

“God, no,” he replied immediately. “I’m not angry at Shawn. Well, I’m pissed at him for being so reckless with his safety, but wanting to shoot him would not be a very logical response to that.”

“True,” she agreed, “but if you’re not mad at Shawn, who is it that you’re so angry at?”

He abruptly turned his attention back to his target, picking his gun up again.

“O’Hara, I appreciate your concern, and I more than appreciate your ability to put up with me when I’m being an ass, but I think I’d like to spend the rest of my day off alone.” He put his earplugs back in, hoping she would take the hint.

She didn’t. Instead, she reached over and plucked the earplugs out, regarding him seriously. “Carlton, please. Let me help you. If you’re not mad at Shawn, then what is with all the rage you’ve been venting since he got shot? Are you mad at me? At Dobson? Buzz thinks that you’re angry with him. He spent an hour yesterday trying to get me to tell him what he’d done wrong.”

Lassiter sighed again. “I’ll buy him lunch too.”

“Carlton.” Just his name, but her steady blue eyes held his gaze, and he finally broke. It was just like O’Hara to kill him with kindness.

“You know, I’ve spent a lot of time over the past few years accusing Shawn of being a liar,” he mused quietly, setting his gun down again. “But he never lied to me about what we were doing, or suggested that there was any future in it. So the only person I’m angry at, O’Hara, is me, for being such a damn fool.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I let myself think there was more to it than there was. I allowed myself to get invested in something that was supposed to be a meaningless affair.”

“It wasn’t meaningless.”

“No, to me it wasn’t. But to Shawn…”

“I’m talking about Shawn!” she said insistently. “Carlton, I saw him just a couple of days ago, and I can tell you: it wasn’t meaningless to him either. He has feelings for you.”

Lassiter looked at her doubtfully. “He said that?”

“Not in so many words,” she admitted, “but I can tell, Carlton. He misses you like crazy. He misses you as much as you miss him.”

“Enough, O’Hara,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m a realist. Wishing for things that will never happen is just a form of misery.”

“And what do you call closing the door on something amazing that could happen because you’re too afraid to take a chance and tell Shawn how you feel?” she asked sadly.

He didn’t answer; he just walked away, leaving her alone on the shooting range.

**

“So how should I tell him?” Shawn wondered, and Gus sighed.

“Are we talking about you and Lassiter again? You know, Shawn, I have problems of my own, but somehow we always seem to end up talking about your problems. Why is that?”

“Okay,” Shawn acknowledged, “tell me what’s going on with you, buddy.”

“Well, since you asked, I think I might have a shot at picking up a new route that would increase my sales by 3.5% by the end of the quarter, but in order to do that, I need to…” he trailed off, noticing Shawn’s glazed expression. “You know what? Never mind. What were you saying about you and Lassiter?”

“Just that it’s been days since I had my epidural, and I still don’t know what to do.”

Gus stared at him in utter confusion. “Uh, Shawn, you didn’t have an epidural.”

“Yes I did! You were there. I had that big moment when I realized that Lassiter loves me and that I have to do something about it.”

After a moment of thought, the confusion on Gus’s face cleared. “Epiphany, Shawn. You had an epiphany, not an epidural. And I know damn well that you haven’t heard it both ways.”

“Have too,” Shawn muttered. “Anyway, how do I tell him, Gus? Should I stand outside his apartment with a boom box singing Peter Gabriel songs? Show up naked in his bed? Invite him to the prom?”

“The _Say Anything_ approach only works for John Cusack, you shouldn’t do anything that could get you accidentally shot for being an intruder in his home, and you’re not in high school,” Gus said, ticking each item off on his fingers.

“You never like any of my suggestions,” Shawn complained.

“This doesn’t need to be complicated. Just go over to his apartment after he gets home from work – DON’T break in, knock like a normal person – and tell him.”

“No,” Shawn said, after giving it a moment’s thought, “that would never work. Oooh, I know! Call the guys from Blackapella and you guys can back me up while I tell him in song.”

“Uh, no. First of all, you’re out of your damn mind if you think we’re letting a white guy sing lead for Blackapella. Second of all, just tell him. Why is that so hard for you?”

“I don’t know!” Shawn fretted, pacing around the office. “I’ve spent too much time thinking about it over the past few days, and it’s messed with my head! And all I can think about now is how much I want to see him. I miss him, Gus.”

“Huh,” Gus said, “you really must be in love. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to see Lassiter all that much.”

“I don’t know why not,” Shawn said dreamily. “I love the way he growls at me when I’m pretending to have a psychic vision, and the way he has every episode of Cops on videotape, all labeled and shelved in order, and the way his voice gets all rumbley when he’s turned on, and the way he tries to solve cold cases over dinner. I even like the salt-and-pepper look that he’s sporting now that his hair is starting to grow back. It makes him look all disingenuous.”

“What is wrong with you today? The word is ‘distinguished’.”

“I thought you didn’t like it when I talked dirty. Oooh, speaking of which, I also love this thing he can do with his fingers –”

Gus stood up abruptly and walked to the other side of the room to turn on the police scanner.

“What are you doing?”

“I can’t take anymore of this. I think it’s time for Psych to be back in business. That way, you can see Lassiter again, and I can pretend that I never heard anything about his fingers or his voice or his hair.”

**

Lassiter winced at the bright sunlight as he took off his sunglasses. After leaving the shooting range the day before, he had gone home and had a drink, then followed that with another, and then another, and…well, things were not entirely clear after that. Today he was paying the price, in the form of a raging hangover.

He and O’Hara had just arrived at a call regarding a burglary at a clothing boutique, and he was doing his best to ignore the fact that his head was pounding and he wanted nothing more than to go back to bed for the rest of the day.

The inside of the store was at least thankfully cool and dim and blessedly free from very many people. Buzz was taking the manager’s statement on one side of the room, and Lassiter followed O’Hara, who was walking purposefully into the back, where the burglar had apparently broken in. He had just leaned over to examine the window that had been busted open when he heard a familiar voice.

“Yes, Gus, yes, this is the place! My senses are telling me that a great evil took place here!”

“Yes!” came the manager’s voice. “Someone stole my handmade selection of designer skorts!”

“Skorts?” Gus asked in confusion.

“It’s a combination skirt and shorts,” Juliet said.

“Mine were bejeweled,” the manager said with a sniffle, “the fashion world has never seen anything like them before.”

Lassiter had forgotten all about his hangover; seeing Shawn again was like an entirely different kind of pain. It wasn't as if he hadn't known that he would have to see Spencer again, it was just that he was hoping it wouldn't be anytime soon. He wasn't ready for this yet.

"Nope," he said flatly. "You're not on this case. Get out."

"Long time no see, Lassie," Shawn said cheerfully, "and, sorry, but the spirits insist that I have to be here today."

Lassiter gave him the kind of glare that had made hardened criminals crumble, but Shawn didn't even flinch. "I don't have time for your bullshit today. Wait, I don't have time for it any day. We're not hiring you for this case. Leave."

"Oh Lassie, don't you know that my powers can't be confined to cases I'm hired for?"

"It's true," Gus interjected. "You should know that by now."

"Shawn," Juliet said, "you're not wearing the sling anymore! How are you doing?"

"I'm great, Jules! Never better. And because I haven't had a case for so long, the psychic world is abuzz with information. Like, your perp was someone who worked here. I'm not getting a name or a description yet, except...definitely a man. That has to narrow it down, right? There can’t be that many men who work in a skort shop."

"That's a good start, thanks," Juliet said, while at the same time Lassiter snapped "Didn't I tell you to get out? You were just _shot_ two weeks ago, Spencer. I'm not letting you back on a case yet."

“Right, I was shot two weeks ago,” Shawn agreed. “That’s like a lifetime ago! At least, it felt like a lifetime while I was staying with my dad.”

While he was talking, Shawn had moved closer and closer to Lassiter, who felt powerless to move away no matter how much he tried to tell himself to keep his distance.

“You look good, Lassie. I mean, your eyes are a little bloodshot, and you’re kind of pale, and your tie is crooked, but it’s all good.”

Lassiter was starting to feel a little desperate. “Spencer, what do I have to do to make you leave? Are you going to make me have McNab escort you out of here?”

“Oh, look at that, it’s Buzz!” Shawn said in delight, waving at Buzz. “How did I miss seeing you over there big guy?”

“Hi Shawn!” Buzz replied, apparently equally delighted.

Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Spencer, why do you have to be so irritating?”

He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so annoyed, and bizarrely, it was kind of nice. Like old times. Suddenly, Shawn was smiling, a real, genuine smile, the kind that reached his eyes and lit up his whole face.

“What?” Lassiter asked suspiciously, taking a step back, because Spencer was clearly up to something.

“Lassie,” he said softly “you are soooo sexy right now.” And then his hands were framing Lassiter’s face and he had moved right into Lassiter’s personal bubble and was kissing him.

From what seemed like a great distance, Lassiter heard Gus yell "Shawn!" and Buzz say “ _Wow_ ” while at the same time Juliet was apparently clapping her hands in glee, but he couldn't be bothered to turn and yell at any of them because Shawn's fingers were in his hair now, and his mouth was hot and soft against Lassiter's, and it was too much. It was all too much. He shoved Shawn off of him with a snarl.

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing? I thought...I thought we agreed..."

"I love you!" Shawn blurted out, then frowned in consternation. "Damn it, that's not how I meant to say it. There was going to be a big speech, and a song—Gus was going to sing back-up—"

"I wasn't," Gus said.

"—and maybe some quotes from some of my favorite movies, and possibly a string quartet."

Lassiter felt sick. "You...you...no, you don't, Spencer. Why the hell would you say something like that?"

Was this some kind of prank? Did Shawn somehow think that this was okay? Was he going to start laughing now, he and Guster both, at what a joke Lassiter had become?

But Shawn wasn't laughing. In fact, he was frowning, looking as earnest and serious as Lassiter had ever seen. "Yes I do. I love you."

"Stop saying that!" Lassiter demanded, panic and fury both creeping into his tone.

Now Shawn was starting to look upset. "No. No, I'm not going to stop saying it. Lassie..." he reached forward, his hand resting against Lassiter’s face again. “You don’t believe me,” he said softly, and Lassiter’s breath caught in his throat at the sheer amount of heartbreak in Shawn’s voice.

“Lassie, look at me. You almost always know when I’m lying. Can’t you see when I’m telling the truth?”

There was no trace of humor or deception or even mischievousness on Shawn’s face; all Lassiter could read there was sincerity and a certain amount of anxiousness. He felt equal parts astonished and hopeful.

“You’re serious. You really…”

“Yeah. I really,” Shawn started to say, but Lassiter stopped him with a kiss, wrapping his arms around Shawn and pulling him as close as they could be with their clothes still on.

“ _Wow_!” Buzz gasped again.

“Finally,” Gus muttered, but he was smiling, and Juliet surprised him by reaching over and hugging him, unable to contain her happiness.

“This is nice and all,” the store manager complained, “but what about my skorts?”

**

Hours later, after Juliet had sent her partner home to take a sick day, Shawn rested his head on Lassiter’s chest, enjoying the soft matting of hair against his cheek and the rapid beat of Lassiter’s heart as he started to recover from Round Three.

“It’s just plain silly that we went without this for two weeks,” Shawn declared sleepily, trying to stifle a yawn. “Remind me not to do that again.”

“Agreed,” Lassiter said, his hand petting gently down Shawn’s back.

“Lassie, you know this isn’t going to change me, right? I’ll try to be more careful, I really will, because getting shot was not the fun-filled adventure that the movies promised it would be, but I’m not going to stop doing what I do. Chances are, I’ll get in trouble again someday.”

“I know,” Lassiter said. “And you know that I’m still going to be a hardass when it comes to letting you in on cases because it kills me to see you in danger, right?”

“Yeah, I know, and also, you could not have phrased that in a sexier way,” Shawn said. “Um, while we’re clearing the air here, the whole psychic thing isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

For the first time since they had crashed through the door of Lassiter’s apartment, Shawn felt a hint of tension in the air.

“I’m not thrilled about it,” Lassiter said, “but I told you before that I didn’t expect you to admit to anything, and I still don’t. Personally though, I think the truth is a lot more impressive than the fiction.”

For that, Shawn reached up to kiss him, then moved down to lick at the sweat on his collarbone.

“Hey,” he said, as a thought occurred to him, “you never said it. I said it a bunch of times, in front of witnesses even, but you didn’t. I mean,” he added weakly, “you don’t have to if you don’t feel the same way. That’s cool.”

Lassiter rolled over so that he could kiss Shawn more deeply, and he whispered the words against Shawn’s mouth, and then again against his ear, and then again as he kissed the scar left by the bullet.

“Oh,” Shawn said shakily, certain that he might be about to burst open with happiness, “you do feel the same way. Well, that’s cool too.”

THE END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Dyslexic Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10750740) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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